All Our Masks
by wingedraksha
Summary: Willow Rosenberg is haunted by a trauma from years ago. Tara Maclay is bound by a secret that could destroy everything she has fought for. Can a woman with a dark past and a girl with something to hide find a way to pull each other out of the deep end?
1. Chapter 1

Feedback: YES, please!

Notes: This is my first W/T fanfiction, but hopefully I will do one of my favorite couples justice. :)

**Chapter One**

The scream should have been a word. It should have been a name, maybe, or at least a plea. Instead, it was a short, brutal, choppy sort of thing that sucked the air from somewhere deep in her chest and curled her into a small, protective ball. Willow Rosenberg woke with the scream, her arms wrapping around her waist as if, if she held on tightly enough, she could simply squeeze the pain away. Tears coursed down her pale, elfin cheeks, and her eyes clenched shut in a futile attempt to stop them.

_Stop this, Willow,_ she told herself, forcing herself to take a deep breath. _It doesn't help._ It was true; she knew it was true. Still, every year at around this time, the nightmares came back. Just like clockwork, they cycled back from whatever inner hell they slept in for the rest of the year, and Willow was treated to another night of waking to the heavenly chorus of her own screams.

Finally, after several minutes of meditative breathing to calm the shaking that wouldn't quite be beaten down, Willow's limbs relaxed back into sleep.

She did not dream.

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"I don't care, Xand, I'm not doing it."

"Willow, come on. This is ridiculous. I mean, look at the place!" Willow flapped a hand dismissively, scooping another chunk of banana and cereal into her spoon. She eyed the young man leaning against the doorframe of her kitchen, face softening at his worried expression.

"Xander, please, just sit down already. You make me feel short."

"You are short. You're not listening to me, Will; you can't keep doing this to yourself!" He entered the room fully, walking around behind her chair and rubbing his hands along her shoulders in a pathetic attempt at a massage. She craned her neck around to give him a look, and he rolled his eyes. "I'm trying to be supportive here, ok? Cut me some slack." She shrugged his hands away, and Xander winced a little, knowing that he was lucky she'd allowed him to touch her at all. He was one of the only ones the slender redhead permitted to break her bubble of personal space, and even he could only go so far. Willow smiled at him apologetically, and he hunkered down to her level.

"I know you're just trying to help, Xand," she said quietly, pushing her bowl of cereal away. "I'm just not comfortable... letting some stranger into my house, you know? Letting someone else poke around and move stuff and- and- _clean_." Xander laughed.

"God, listen to yourself! Your dorm room at college was, like, Spotty McSpotless, and now you're hyperventilating over the idea of-"

"I don't have time to clean up around here, and you know it. I just don't want some random psycho to come inside my home, ok? You know me," she added, and Xander ached at the helpless sort of acceptance he heard in her voice.

"She's not some random psycho, Will," he said softly, taking one of her hands. She tensed automatically, but then twisted her fingers to twine with his. "I've met this girl. She's about as far from a nutcase as you are from... someone really far away." Willow snorted, and he smiled encouragingly. "Just give her a trial run, ok? Let her come in tomorrow, and see how you like her."

"It doesn't matter if I like her or not," Willow sniffed, "as long as she stays out of my way." Xander whistled.

"Tough mama, coming through."

"Shut up." He patted her hand, and then stood.

"I'm gonna give the cleaning lady a call and tell her to come at eight tomorrow morning. That fine?"

"Yeah, I guess," Willow said grudgingly. "But if this doesn't work out, you are so dead." He clapped a hand to his chest.

"And a willing sacrifice I'd be, if it meant this house would start looking more like a home and less like a garbage dump. Honestly, Will, when's the last time you picked up a vacuum cleaner?" She blinked at him. "Don't answer that, on second thought." He paused at the door, turning back to face the young woman sitting at the mahogany kitchen table. "Thank you for letting me do this," Xander said, more seriously. "I worry about you, all alone in this big old house with all this junk lying around. It's like you're entombing yourself in some kind of mausoleum."

"Big words, Xand-man," she teased lightly. "I'm impressed." He coughed, made a rude hand gesture, and left.

Alone, Willow's smile fell, and she stared down at her hands where they lay flat on the surface of the table. She wasn't wearing her gloves yet, as she hadn't been planning on leaving the house, and the scars were painfully obvious against the wood. A complicated web of white lines marring the skin of the backs of her hands up to her wrists, with a few more ropey marks running up the forearms to her elbows. She bit her lip, her hands sliding from the table to her lap, hidden from sight.

Someone else coming. Tomorrow at eight. Someone else, entering her world, seeing... seeing...

"Oh, don't be stupid," she said aloud. "It's probably some mousy little high school dropout who needs a couple bucks for the summer. I can scare her on the first day, and if she sticks around, well, at least she won't be bothering me." Feeling a little better, Willow got up and put her bowl in the sink to wash at some point in the intangible future. As she walked from the kitchen to her office, stepping over a knocked-over trashcan (empty, thankfully) on the way, Willow kneaded her belly absently, not recognizing the hollow aching there for what it really was: loneliness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"I really don't think that's plausible, Harry," Willow said into the phone, eyes scanning the monitor screen in front of her. "I've already killed Melissa off."

"All I'm saying is, you need to fix this ending. Your books are getting predictable."

"Predictable?!" Willow's attention was snatched away from the computer screen, and she swiveled her chair to reach across her desk for the soda on the coaster there. "I hardly think having _Warren_ be the killer was predictable. You said it yourself, you thought-"

"That's not what I meant," her editor interrupted. "The stories are good, the writing is excellent, the plotlines don't have holes... it's just that you're kind of getting a reputation for no happy endings, sweetheart, and that's not good. You want to switch it up a bit."

"You know how I work," she protested, turning back to the last chapter of her current novel. "It's not like I plan it out like this. They just... end."

"Willow. Listen to me. All I'm asking-"

"Listen to you? Why is everyone saying that to me? What am I, deaf?" Harry coughed, sounding uncomfortable.

"I don't know what that was supposed to mean, and frankly, I don't really care. Your job is to write. My job is to make people _read_ what you write. So if you want our jobs to work out together, all happy-like, then you will listen to what I am telling you, and change this ending." Willow gave an irritated sigh.

"Fine. I'll work on it. I have to go, Harry, I have a visitor coming in," she checked her watch, "half an hour."

"That's eight o'clock, where you are. Who's coming to your house at eight AM on a Saturday?"

"Some girl Xander found. Apparently she cleans."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Should be fun. Also, I'm meeting with Karen Henderson on Monday. From Quantico?"

"Mm, right. I keep forgetting about that part." She laughed a little.

"Much as you like to pretend otherwise, writing is _not_ my only profession."

"For now, Rosenberg. For now."

"Yeah, all right. Call me when you've got this worked out, ok?"

"Sure." She hung up, putting a finger to the computer screen and reading what she'd written.

_It seemed so hard to imagine. That it was over, you know? I thought... I guess somehow I always thought she'd come home. I put my head in my hands, unable to cry, unable to stop seeing her face. _

_I should have known Warren would come for us._

_I should have known I wouldn't be able to stop him. Not this time. _

Willow sighed and closed the document, pushing away from her desk. She stood, smoothing her soft jeans and retucking the hem of her green button-up shirt. Walking into the bathroom, she splashed her face with warm water and blotted it carefully, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. She wore no makeup, least of all this early in the morning. Still, she felt a nagging kind of guilt, as if some part of her was just a little annoyed at her decidedly negative expectations of the 'visit' to come.

Willow shook her head, exiting the bathroom and her pale, accusatory reflection.

Show time.

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She didn't really want to knock on the door. It seemed like it was a door that should have a knocker, one of those big, ornate brass lion heads or something. Tara smiled at the thought, which helped take away some of the nervousness that wracked her body. She eyed the door again, taking in the height, the thickly carved wood, the giant frame of old Victorian-style housing that the door sat in. It was a beautiful house, she had to admit. At least, from the outside. The young man who had answered her ad had described the inside of the house as... somewhat less than beautiful. Tara swallowed, straightening her back. _Do not let yourself be intimidated by a _door_, Tara._ Chastised by her inner self, Tara slowly raised a hand and let her knuckles fall against the wood.

Somehow, the touch of that door sent a tingle through the bones of her hand straight up to her collarbone, and she shivered a little.

Before she could knock again, the door swung open. Tara's mouth opened, and stayed open for a moment. The woman standing in the doorframe was not exactly what she'd expected, to say the least.

Red hair, shiny and lustrous, fell to her chin in a chic bob that nonetheless looked as if it hadn't met a stylist in quite some time. Huge green eyes stared warily out of a creamy-skinned, delicately featured face, complimented by the emerald Oxford the woman was wearing. Tara blinked, noting the way the woman's arms went from the door to wrap around her own abdomen protectively, emphasizing both the slenderness of her frame and the careful, aloof expression on her face.

"H-hi," Tara said quickly, covering for her momentary speechlessness. "My n-name's Tara Maclay. I'm the cleaning lady?" She hated the fragility she heard in her own voice, hated the stutter and the way the last sentence turned itself into a question all on its own. Her eyes dropped instinctively, staring at the woman's old sneakers.

"Yes," the redhead said. "Xander called you. I'm Willow Rosenberg. Come in." She stepped back just enough to let Tara and her bag slip inside, and then the door closed firmly. Tara's eyes darted back to the closed door, and then she steeled herself and smiled at Willow Rosenberg.

"Mr.Ha- Xander- told me you're a writer," she tried. The redhead's expression did not change. "I underst-stand that you'll probably w-want your privacy."

"Yes," Miss Rosenberg said shortly, turning to walk down the hallway. Tara followed, glancing with raised brows at the clutter and mess. The redhead stopped abruptly, and Tara froze. "I'll be spending most of my time in my office, if I'm at home. Please knock before entering, and if I say to leave, don't ask questions." Tara nodded, wanting to frown, but not quite daring.

"I'll be very discreet, Miss." Willow Rosenberg gave a small nod, and then a little sigh.

"Help yourself to food or something if you get hungry," she added, and Tara thought she sounded a tad bit lost. Almost as if the script, after laying down the ground rules, had ended, and now Miss Rosenberg was just winging it.

"Thank you. I'll t-try not to get in your way." Tara's gaze dropped to the other woman's hands, and her brow furrowed a bit when Willow gave a visible flinch. Her hands were encased in long black gloves, which Tara thought was sort of odd, given the heat outside. Still, it was obvious that her boss was uncomfortable, maybe even threatened, and Tara was very well-versed in feeling both. She dipped her head, lifted her bag, and backed away. "I'll just g-get started, then," she said. The redhead nodded again, and pointed vaguely back down the hall.

"Let me know if you need anything," she said, walking swiftly away in the direction she'd pointed in. The offer had been profoundly insincere, Tara knew, but she wasn't insulted. It was clear that Miss Rosenberg was not fully approving of this whole situation, but Tara didn't really mind. After all, no matter how strange, or how beautiful her employer was, Tara couldn't afford to forget her reasons for coming here in the first place.

A place to work. To make a living.

To hide.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

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**

Willow sat in her office, fingers resting numbly on her keyboard. She felt small, and closed-in, and taut. She closed her eyes, listening to the rapid flutter of her heartbeat. There was something, resting just beneath the surface of her consciousness, that felt disturbingly like panic.

_She's not a schoolgirl,_ her mind told her. _She's your age, don't you think? A woman. A woman with hair like gold at twilight, and eyes softer than blue cashmere. _Willow's eyes snapped open, and the thought vanished, crushed by the weight of the fear she could already feel building behind her ribcage.

_People can't be trusted. Especially the pretty ones. _

Her fingers began to move on the keyboard, but no words were typed. With a short exhalation of breath, Willow flexed her hands. They were aching again today. She knew that it was because of the temperature; the doctors had warned her that cold would bring out the old pain. Still, she kept her office chilly, maybe out of sheer stubbornness.

Willow glanced at the door, just to make sure it was closed and locked, and then pulled her gloves off and laid them carefully on her desk. She massaged the roughened skin of her hands, the pads of her fingers brushing across the burns.

Burns.

Looking at them, Willow cringed. Disgusting. Both her hands, the fingers so slender and tapering, ruined forever. They were shaking, she noticed, holding them in front of her face. Not because of the cold, and not because of the old scars. It was her own insecurity that made her tremble, and Willow despised that.

"I hate you," she whispered, eyes fixed on the ugly network of whitish lines that spiderwebbed up each of her wrists.

_"No! Oh god, what are you _doing_?! Stop!"_

_Pain. Pain like-_

_"Help me! Make it- MAKE IT STOP!"_

_Hands behind her oh god and it hurt it hurt and there was- were- there- the tears and the screaming, and it was all in the dark because there was pain so much _

_"Hurts! It hurts, it hurts, ithurtsit-" And just a blend, a meld, a mold, a veritable _smoothie_ of sound, an animal screaming as it burns, burns-_

"Stop it!" Willow's fists clenched, and she shut off the memory, breathing hard. Her face hovered in the reflective surface of her computer screen, white and ghostlike. Her nostrils flared, and Willow swallowed. She shoved her gloves back on, crossing her arms across her breasts.

"Stop it," she said again, her voice low and commanding. "It was three years ago, Willow. Three _years_ ago. Get over it, already."

_Three years, yeah, but all that time, all that therapy... It just disappears at night, doesn't it? Close your eyes and you're there again, aren't you, sweetie?_

Willow stood forcibly, her entire body shaking. Before she even knew what she was doing, she was crouched in the corner of the room, knees up against her chest, arms wrapped around them, forehead pressed against her forearms. Her teeth chattered, the trembles wracking her tight frame in waves. Willow squeezed her eyes shut, imagining a flame.

_Focus on the flame. Be the flame. Send all your fears, all your anger, all your hate, into the flame. Let it burn, be cleansed._

_Let it burn like you burned._

_No!_

The shaking was getting worse, and it was getting hard to breathe. Willow tried not to sob, knowing that would only make her lungs clamp closed.

"Oh goddess," she murmured. "Oh my goddess please help me." The plea was a quiet, stammering rush that barely escaped her lips, but hearing the words seemed to ground Willow in a way that the metaphysical exercise of focusing on a point of light hadn't. The words were rational, real, solid. They hung in the air like invisible balloons, waiting for her to grab their strings and lift away.

Slowly, excruciatingly, the shaking eased. Willow's breath slowed, the shuddering gasps turning into weighted, measured inhalations.

Finally, Willow uncurled her body and stood, leaning for a moment against the wall. She hadn't had a panic attack like that in... well, in a long time. She'd gotten so much better!

Or so she'd thought.

No. She _had_ gotten better. _Was_ better. It was that- that _girl_, Tara Maclay. Something about her slipped through Willow's defenses, a needle finding the one crack in the redhead's cold shield. Willow gave a shaky laugh. _Well, duh, Rosenberg. She's the first woman you've invited into your home in years. She's certainly the most attractive girl you've seen in a while, and she stared at your hands. Of _course_ you're freaking out about this!_

"My hands. My stupid hands," Willow muttered, going to her door. But she knew perfectly well that it wasn't just her hands. A beautiful woman, the first one Willow had seen in ages. A stranger inside her home, touching her things, making the air move in a way it hadn't in all the years Willow had lived alone in this house. Someone new, someone ignorant, staring at the crazy lady who wore gloves in the middle of the summer and lived inside a wreck that called itself a Victorian.

All these things made Willow's gut tighten, but what scared her most of all was what lay _beneath_ those obvious insecurities.

_Tara. Tara Maclay._

_I want her._

And that was it, pure and simple. No matter that she hadn't seen a pretty girl in ages. No matter that her privacy was being invaded. No matter that her social skills had taken a drastic plunge since her college days. The fact was, that one glance from the blond's meltedbluegray eyes had made Willow's belly twist in a way entirely different from the fear and pain she was so used to.

And that, friends and neighbors, was unacceptable, wasn't it? After all, people are _not to be trusted_. Was that really a lesson that Willow needed to learn yet again?

_But what about Xander? You trust him._

_He doesn't count; he's Xander._

So, walking quietly towards the kitchen, Willow made up her mind.

Miss Maclay had to go.

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Tara wasn't sure where to start. Every room was worse than the one before it, or so it seemed. She wasn't exactly the world's best cleaner, either. Still, she valiantly decided on what she reckoned, after a bit of confusion, was probably once a living room. Now, it was a carpeted waste containment chamber, or at least was doing an excellent impression of one.

Tara unrolled several double strength garbage bags from her supplies, and began putting the more obvious trash inside them. Once she was finished with that, she started picking through the various items of clothing, books, magazines, boxes, hair supplies and file folders that littered the rest of the room. In about an hour, she had made a few loosely organized stacks in the middle of the room, and had successfully cleared off a couch, a coffee table and a small footstool.

"Sheesh," Tara said, surveying the rest of the room. "What kind of-"

And that's when the door swung loudly open and the slim, upright figure of Willow Rosenberg stepped lightly in. Tara looked at her employer with slight wariness, noting the way the redhead's mouth had opened upon entering, as if she was preparing to say something, and then just stayed open as she stared at the room.

"I haven't seen that couch since last year," she said, almost as if she were unaware that she was speaking aloud.

"I-it's a very comfy one," Tara commented. The stutter was back, naturally, but she was rather proud of the calm steadiness she managed the rest of the time.

"Yeah, my cat liked to sleep on it," Willow continued, still staring from the couch to the newly visible wooden table, to the cushy footstool.

"You have a cat?" Tara's face brightened, and then fell again as Miss Rosenberg seemed to snap out of whatever daze the sudden anomaly that was cleanliness had put her in.

"We need to talk," she said quickly. Tara blinked at her, unsure whether or not she was supposed to nod or say something or... But the redhead took up the silence after only a brief pause. "This isn't working. You need to go."

"W-what? I j-just started! D-d-did I do something wrong?" Tara heard the accusation as well as the meekness in her own voice, and wasn't sure if she was proud or not. While it was nice to hear herself standing up for something for a change, she wasn't positive that this was the_ best_ time to be assertive. Willow, however, looked a bit taken aback, as well as a bit ashamed.

"No, no, it's not that." She bit her lip, and Tara's thoughts took a sudden leap towards the impolite. _Do not think about those things, Tara Maclay._ The redhead went on. "I just... I'm not used to..."

"Please don't fire me," Tara said quietly, the accusation gone. She couldn't afford to lose this job, whether it meant being subservient or not. "I n-need the- Just please don't." Miss Rosenberg sighed, looking adorably guilty.

"I'm sorry. It's not you." Tara studied her face for a moment, and then set down the pile of junk she was holding and held her hands out to the other woman in a gesture of both honesty and plea.

"I have n-nowhere to go, if I c-can't pay my rent," she admitted, not taking any pleasure in either the lie or the way the redhead's face fell. "This i-is my only ch-chance, Miss Rosenberg. Nobody hires cleaners in this city a-anymore, and I can't afford t-to move."

"You have nothing else? What about your family?"

"I d-don't have a family," Tara replied, dropping her eyes. And _that_ was true, wasn't it? As far as _she_ was concerned, it was, and that was all that mattered now.

"Oh," the redhead said, and Tara looked up. She sounded sympathetic, but still with that edge of distance that had so struck Tara when they first met. "I'm sorry." Tara nodded.

"Please," she said again. The other woman rubbed her face with her gloved hands, and gave a drawn out sigh.

"All right," she said finally. "All right." She sounded defeated, and Tara felt a pang, and not only for the guilt of having manipulated her into giving in. The pretty Willow Rosenberg looked more than just defeated, Tara saw, meeting her gaze. She looked haunted.

"Thank you, Miss."

"Just... just call me Willow," she said, and turned to walk silently out of the room.

Tara had no idea if that was a good thing or not. Still, in the secrecy of the empty room, she couldn't help but try it out against her tongue, feeling it slide between her lips.

"Willow..."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"So how'd it go?"

"I kicked her out," Willow replied, pinning the phone between her ear and shoulder as she tipped some oregano into her spaghetti sauce.

"You what? Willow, that was-"

"And now I have to worry about her prancing around here while I'm out, because she's coming back on Monday." There was a moment of silence.

"Did I miss something?" Willow sighed into the phone, sniffing the pot of sauce and wrinkling her nose before adding another leaf.

"No... She talked me out of firing her." The woman on the other end gave a quick, disbelieving laugh.

"She _talked_ you out of firing her? My god, Will, you're slipping. Back in the day, nothing short of waltzing in panties-less would've made Willow Rosenberg change her mind."

"Yeah, well, I just felt bad for her, ok? She had the big eyes and the stutter, and I just..."

"Oh. My god."

"No!" Willow interrupted her friend before the damning sentence could escape. "Nothing like that!" _Exactly like that._ "I'm not heartless, you know, Buff. I'm not stone."

"Pretty damn close," Buffy Summers muttered, "ever since... Shit, I'm sorry. You know me, not big with the thinking..." Willow closed her eyes and shook her head.

"It's ok," she said. "I... I'm ok, Buffy. It's in the past. I don't want people to act like I'm going to break if they-" She broke off, and swallowed. "If they talk about it." And even as she insisted that she wasn't as fragile as she seemed, Willow couldn't avoid the fact that her very throat had closed up to keep her from speaking, as if the sound of her voice would transport her back in time. Three years back, to be exact.

"So, this girl is a smooth talker, huh?" Buffy's voice was lighter, but there was an underlying carefulness to it that made Willow want to scream. "Is she hot?"

"That has nothing to do with anything."

"I'm so sure."

"Buffy..."

"She's gorgeous, isn't she? A sexy maid! Man, Wills, sometimes I wish I were gay... You can make her wear that little French costume thing, can't you? With the apron and the-"

"Buffy! I don't want to talk about- about Miss Maclay!" Buffy fell silent at the actual anger in Willow's voice, and then harrumphed.

"Well, fine. Be that way. But if I bring up a guy any time in the future," she went on, "I do _not_ want to hear about it! If you won't let me tease you, I get the same rights." Buffy didn't sound mad at Willow's outburst, and Willow knew that was because she _wasn't_ mad. Buffy was very good at 'mad', but she was also very good at 'friend', and somehow the fact that she could so easily overlook Willow's anger was both wonderful... and awful. Willow sighed again and turned on the water for the noodles.

"Right," she agreed. "You know, I wouldn't even have told you about this, if Xander hadn't called you."

"I know. I'm always the last to know everything around here."

"That's probably because you're _not_ 'around here'," Willow retorted. "It's been a long time since college, Buff. What with you living across the country and all, it's kind of hard to keep in touch." There was a pause, and Willow felt bad. "I'm sorry, I'm just snappy tonight. I'm... a little on-edge."

"A little? Je-_sus_, girl." They laughed, and there was a tender togetherness in the laugh that made the cluttered kitchen seem just a little brighter._Goddess, I miss her,_ Willow thought to herself, for once allowing herself to close her eyes and see Buffy's face. She could imagine the blond girl as if they were standing right beside each other: the tan skin, the green-gray eyes, the wide, siren's smile. And then, Buffy made a tsking sound in her throat, and Willow's image of her broke apart and melted into the blackness of her own eyelids. "I gotta go, Will. I'm sorry. Duty calls."

"Yeah," Willow said dryly. "Go save the world."

"All in a day's work," Buffy said, mock-stoically. "And hey, don't make fun. L.A.P.D. ain't just a job. It's a _career_."

"You just like it 'cause you get a gun."

"Whatever you're trying to in_sin_uate," Buffy cried loudly, over Willow's laughter, "I have _no_ idea what you're talking about."

"Ok, sure. Don't shoot any dogs this time."

"And on that happy note..." Buffy hung up, and Willow gently set the telephone down on the counter as she stirred her spaghetti sauce. It was red and thick and smelled heavenly, but for an instant, Willow couldn't even imagine eating it.

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_"Tara? Tara, is that you?" She's hiding in the closet (one of many), and the footsteps are getting closer. Her breath comes faster, her hands clenching in the fabric of her shirt as she tries not to make a sound._

_"Tara, darlin', don't be shy. Come out, come out, come out!" It's Eddie, the tall one. He's older than the rest of them, but not as high in the ranks as, say, Donnie. "We're not gonna hurt you, baby girl."_

_She shuts her eyes, and then instantly opens them again. Somehow, the darkness behind her lids is much more frightening than the darkness of the closet. _

_"We just wanna help you," Eddie continues. They're banging on the walls, now, just making noise. The house, as huge as it is, echoes with their sounds. "Your daddy finds out what you are, he'll kill you. We just wanna prove to him that you're normal, Tara. Don't you wanna be normal?"_

_"I am normal," she whispers, so softly that she herself can barely hear the words. _

_"C'mon, sis." It's Donnie, and that is terrible. Terrible that he is out there, with them, wanting... Wanting... _

_"Listen to your brother, Tara! He wants what's best for you, too! You don't want your dad to know you're a fucking _dyke_, do you? Little lesbo gonna get her _ass_ kicked!"_

_Dyke. Lesbo._

_She doesn't even know what these words mean, and yet they send a shiver of nausea into the pit of her stomach._

_"We don't want queers in this family," Donnie says quietly, and he's right outside the closet, now. She knows that he knows she's there. She knows it with every fiber of her being. Terror loops around in her mind on an endless racetrack, whirling faster and faster until she's dizzy with it._

_"We'll show you how normal people do it," Eddie adds, very soft now. "We'll turn you right."_

_"Boys! What are you doing? Have you got any idea how loud you're being?!" It's Melissa, who is older than all of them and still pretty enough to make them listen to her. "Get yourselves downstairs. Mr. M is talking business, and he doesn't need any distractions!" This, of course, destroys any tidbit of rebellion any of them might have left, and Tara hears them amble casually- but quickly- off down the hall and down the stairs. Melissa follows them, her footsteps lighter than theirs. Carefully, Tara steps out of the closet. Safe._

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_

Tara opened her eyes soundlessly, transitioning instantly from sleep to waking. She looked up at the bare, cracked ceiling of her motel room. The dream, which was more like a memory, was already fading, but she thought she could hear the echoes of Melissa's voice. She would be almost forty now. Pretty, young Melly, who was only twenty-five when she effectively saved Tara's hide that day all those years ago. _I'm older than she was_, Tara found herself thinking, and the thought shocked her a little. It was true. At twenty-seven, just over half her lifetime had passed since she hid in the closet while the boys hunted for her.

Tara wondered vaguely why Melissa had been there in the first place. She wasn't family. She'd been someone's girlfriend, Tara supposed. Had to have been. She hadn't lasted though, if Tara recalled correctly. The last time she'd seen Melly had been little over two months after the day in the hall.

And, of course, that made her wonder if pretty Melissa had lived to be almost forty at all.

Tara rolled over, hugging one of the two pillows to her chest. She stared out the small window across from the bed, her eyes dry, her heart feeling very hard. _It doesn't matter if Melissa got out or not, because I did. I got out._ Tara let out her breath, eyes seeking out the tiny, distant spots of light moving across the sky: planes, heading for the airport in Richmond.

She watched them blink across the night, until, one by one, they were gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Dr. Rosenberg, it's good to see you again." Agent Karen Henderson automatically held out her hand for Willow to shake, and then quickly withdrew it. Willow gave a small, sheepish smile, and gestured to one of the two chairs on either side of the table.

"Sit down, won't you?" Once seated, the two women shared a moment of necessary silence as they glanced down at the laminated menu slips in front of each seat.

"You ladies ready to order?" Willow and Henderson looked up at the gum-chewing young man with the little plastic clipboard, ballpoint pen poised above it.

"The Reuben, please," Willow said. "And a Coke."

"I'll have a salad, thanks," the other woman said, offering the waiter her menu. Willow did the same, and then folded her hands on the table.

"So, why am I here?" Agent Henderson, tall and dusky, gave a quick, appreciative smile before her face fell back into a serious mien.

"Straight and to the point, Doctor."

"Yes, well, that hasn't changed, at least." Henderson coughed, the air suddenly becoming tense. Willow met the other woman's dark gaze, and knew they were both thinking the same thing.

"Off the record," Henderson said quietly, "how've you been? It's been over two years since I saw you last." Willow shrugged.

"Well, after I stopped practicing, your people didn't have much need for me. There wasn't a reason to interact."

"That's not what I meant, Dr. Rosenberg. I'm not trying to be forward or intrusive. I'm not a fed here, ok? I saw what that bastard did to you."

"I know," Willow said quickly, refusing to drop her gaze. "Thank you for your concern, Agent Henderson. I'd be grateful if you'd tell me why it is you called me. Is there a case you'd like me to look at?"

"Dr. Rosenberg," the darker woman began, "you were- are- one of the most talented psychiatric profilers we've got." She held up a hand to block Willow's protest, continuing briskly. "True, you never fully committed to working for the FBI, but your work has helped put away people who might never have been caught, and helped heal those who might have spent the rest of their lives locked up inside a mental asylum because no one felt like giving a damn whether they lived or died, as long as the 'justice system' said they were in good hands." Willow laughed, but there was little humor in the sound.

"Thanks for the praise, Agent Henderson. What's the other shoe?"

"I'm not praising you, Doctor." The FBI agent paused as the lanky youth with the gum placed their plates in front of them and ambled off. Picking up her fork, Henderson stared Willow straight in the eye. "You were one of the best, and even you couldn't get through to Cole Raimey."

Willow felt her heart skip a beat, her breath suddenly freezing against the lining of her lungs.

Henderson went on.

"I don't want to drag you through that again, Dr. Rosenberg, but it's my job to make sure what happened three years ago never happens again, and my job isn't always pretty."

"What are you saying," Willow asked, her voice a numb whisper.

"I called you last week because there was a ritual murder in Maine and my team was interested in having a criminal psychiatrist take a look at the profile Quantico spit out."

"Yes, I remember," Willow said, her throat feeling very dry. She was filled with a sense of foreboding so intense that her heart seemed to clench with it. Reaching for the glass of water on the table, she took a sip. "I still have the file you sent."

"I'd already arranged to meet today to discuss that case," Henderson went on, "but now that file is on the backburner. We just got word from Riverbend Max. Cole Raimey escaped last night. We don't know how, or don't know who's helping him... But it doesn't take a degree in the psychology of the criminal mind to figure out who he's going to come for." Agent Henderson closed her mouth, watching the redhead, waiting for her to speak.

But Willow Rosenberg, successful novelist and retired-in-theory criminal psychiatrist, did not say a word.

When the water glass she'd been holding crashed to the floor and sent shards of glass skittering across the cheap, flatted floor, she didn't even flinch.

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Tara straightened, one hand pressed to the small of her back.

"Goddess, grant me patience," she muttered, surveying the newly vacuumed kitchen. Turning, she glanced out the window and nearly jumped out of her own skin.

Willow Rosenberg, face as white as newly fallen snow, was striding up the walkway that led to the front door, her body cutting through the air like a knife blade. Behind her was a tall black woman with a steely face and, more importantly, a gun.

Oh, it was concealed, of course, but Tara's well-trained eyes immediately picked out the telltale bump and pull of a shoulder holster.

Cop.

And not just any cop, she realized instantly, her fingers clamping down on the handle of the vacuum cleaner. This woman stank of federal agent.

_Calm down, Tara. You've got nothing to worry about. You haven't given anything away._

And she would continue to not give anything away. Her life, after all, somewhat depended on it. Just a little.

That intimidating front door slammed open, and quick footsteps brought both the redhead and the fed into the kitchen.

"Get out," Miss Roseneberg – no, _Willow_ – ordered, and Tara was happy to oblige. Dropping the vacuum cleaner, she walked swiftly towards the doorway that led into the hall, head down. A hand shot out and caught her shoulder, stopping her midstep. It was the fed.

"Who's this? I thought you said you lived alone?"

"I'm-"

"She's nobody," Willow broke in, taking the words right out of Tara's mouth. "A housecleaner, that's all."

"Is she working here permanently?"

"For now, yes." Tara shrank away from the hand that still rested on her shoulder, calculating the distance from the door down the hall to where she was now. She let herself fold inward, putting on the air of the meek, frightened girl as she gauged the speed it would take to make a run for it and get outside before the fed or the redhead could catch her.

"You're fired," the fed told Tara abruptly. Tara almost choked with her surprise, staring at the black woman. And then, her surprise became absolute shock when Willow stepped forward, knocking the fed's arm away from Tara's shoulder and sliding neatly between the two women.

"No, she's not."

"Dr. Rosenberg, she's a security risk." _Doctor? _

"Only if the routine she follows provides Raimey with access into the house," the redhead stated coolly, and with a calm that Tara found amazing considering the ashen condition of her complexion. "You said your people will be set up 24-7, right, Agent Henderson? So it shouldn't matter if she continues to do her job." The fed, Agent Henderson, gave a short sigh.

"Fine." Directing her attention at the silent and wide-eyed Tara, she spoke briskly. "You don't leave without the say-so of either myself or one of my agents." Tara's mouth opened, but before she could speak, the taller woman went on. "Unless you get out _now_, consider yourself under quarantine."

"Agent Henderson, this is my house, and I make the rules," Willow said, her voice far colder than it had been a minute ago. When the federal agent replied, her own voice was much quieter.

"I'm sorry if I'm offending you by taking charge of this situation, Doctor, but I'm sure that no one is more aware than you are of how dangerous it is for you right now. If my methods seem harsh, that may be true, but I am trying to keep you alive." Tara felt an odd lurch in her chest, and she found herself speaking, no stutter at all.

"Excuse me," she said, stepping out from behind the slender redhead, "but what the hell is going on?" There was a moment of silence, and then the fed began to speak as Willow's mouth thinned to a hard line.

"I'm Agent Karen Henderson, FBI. I'm in charge of a case regarding a man named Cole Raimey, and part of that involves protecting the doc, here. You were, no offense, a bit of a chink in the plan. I'm sorry for snapping at you, Miss..?"

"Maclay," Tara said slowly. "Tara Maclay." _Cole Raimey. Cole Raimey._

_It can't be..._

"Miss Maclay. But you've got a choice, it appears," she added, giving Willow a hard look. "Either leave now, or stay and keep Dr. Rosenberg company while we try to catch this bastard."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_Leave now. Get out. Come on, Tara, grab your things and get the hell out of here!_

She looked at Willow, standing there with her gloved hands clenched into fists at her sides. The redhead's eyes were completely, studiously blank.

"I..." _Make a choice. Make the right choice. You cannot stay here!_

That pale, delicate face, so carefully expressionless.

"Well, Miss Maclay?" Tara felt her heart racing inside her ribcage, her breath turning ragged as the world tipped a bit and her equilibrium toppled. _Long as you keep your mouth shut, babe, you just might survive._

"I'm staying."

She heard the words as if someone else had spoken, and Tara had a momentary sense of complete disorientation. Her eyes flicked from the room to the fed before finally landing, locking, on Willow's unfathomable green stare. Her breath whooshed out in a silent torrent, and Tara's heart rate slowed at last.

"Fine," Henderson said, and Tara jerked her gaze from the redhead's to watch the agent warily. "You two just stay inside for the time being, ok?" She reached out as if to put a hand on Willow's shoulder, and the shorter woman flinched away. Henderson's gaze softened. "We're going to get him, Doctor," the fed assured the redhead. "Don't worry."

"I'll stop worrying when you show me a body," Willow replied flatly, and there was something in her voice that sent chills down Tara's spine. A sort of heaviness seemed to settle on Tara's soul, then, and the corners of her mouth tightened. _What am I doing?_ Then, she swallowed hard, and reminded herself. _You committed to this path, T. There's no going back now._

"I've got to brief my team. There'll be an agent staying in the house with you if you want, and we'll be stationed outside."

"One stranger in my house is enough," Willow said, glancing briefly at Tara. "For now, I don't think a live-in fed is necessary." Her voice was tight, and there was an unnerving mixture of fear and resolve in her green eyes.

"I hear it's all the r-rage in Europe," Tara found herself saying, the urge to break the tension almost as strong as the urge to remove herself from the situation entirely. Both other women turned to look at her, silent. Tara blushed, mentally kicking herself for even trying to speak. _Shut up and listen. Watch. Don't get involved, don't get tied down, and most of all, don't make stupid jokes!_

And then, the redhead's lips twisted in an oddly sweet smirk.

"Yeah, well, I never did like Paris. Too many naked drunks." She sounded, if not exactly light-hearted, at least a little amused. Tara smiled at her before she could help herself, but immediately wiped the smile away as Willow's face hardened back into her mask. It appeared as if the other woman recognized the dangerous ground they were treading on just as much as Tara herself did.

"All right. I'll check in with you later, Dr. Rosenberg. Miss Maclay." Agent Henderson tipped an invisible cap at them, and left the room. The two women listened to the sound of her shoes clipping down the hall, and then heard the door open and close.

Silence.

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Willow looked at the blond woman, her mouth still feeling strange from the unaccustomed half-smile. Tara's eyes shifted away from her gaze, and the blond bit her lower lip. Willow's own lips parted as she tried to think of something to say, and then she shook her head.

"I don't know why you're still here, Miss Maclay, but as far as I'm concerned, your job hasn't changed."

"You c-can call me Tara," she said, tilting her head. She looked the very picture of a wholesome sort of angel, and something

(lust)

in Willow gave a sudden little squeeze. Right before something else, which had been lurking just out of sight since their encounter on Saturday, wormed its way into Willow's mind.

Suspicion.

She met the other woman's big, guileless blue eyes, and Willow realized something for the first time; something she had missed in their first meeting, perhaps because of the obvious nervousness her new cleaning lady had displayed: she could see nothing _behind_ those eyes. Not fear, not annoyance, not humor.

Nothing.

Willow drew in a breath, the familiar mistrust and anxiety mixing with something new and vaguely unsettling: disappointment.

"Please go about your work," she said quickly, casting her eyes around the kitchen before moving for the door. "I'll be in my study."

Willow strode towards her office at a steadily increasing speed, and she was almost running by the time she actually pulled the door open. Shutting it as quietly as she could without losing any time, she pressed her back against the wood and sank to the floor, resting the back of her head against the bottom panel.

_I'm trapped in my own home with someone I can't read. I'm a goddamn mental health expert, and I can't read her!_

_Of course, you've been trapped in this house for a lot longer than just now, Wills, you know. And as for the lovely Tara Maclay, well, we all have our little secrets, don't we? You have your little secrets, too, Willow-my-love. And can anyone read them in your eyes?_

Willow stared across her study, her blank, cold, closed-off gaze resting flatly on the opposite wall.

_That's right,_ her inner self said smugly.

"Besides," Willow said aloud, mostly unaware she was doing so, "this is all my fault."

_Like always..._

"I mean, who _else_ invited her in?" That made her giggle. _Like a vampire. Just like a fucking vampire, right? Got the garlic?_ She laughed to herself before clapping a hand over her mouth, horrified at the tinge of hysteria she heard there. Willow hissed out a breath, angrily stopping that train of thought. _Get a hold of yourself, girl! You are not this weak!_

"No," Willow declared suddenly, this time fully aware of the sound of her own voice. The hysterical little-girl-Willow shut up at once, the edge of madness she'd felt knocking at the corners of her mind backing down in the face of this new strength. "I'm not." She stood, going to her desk and opening the bottom drawer, pulling out its only contents.

_And if Miss Tara Maclay can't be trusted, that's not a problem. Because I am not going to be afraid forever, and I am sure as hell not going to be a victim again._ With a much steadier touch than a moment before, Willow's gloved fingers ran over the smooth, shiny barrel of the gun in her hand as she allowed herself the luxury of feeling something she'd not felt in years: power.

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Once the redhead was gone, Tara let herself sink into one of the kitchen chairs, stretching out her legs with a sigh.

_You've really done it now,_ she thought to herself, caught somewhere between fear, uncertainty, disgust... and excitement. _Cole Raimey. It has to be the same one. It has to be!_ The FBI agent had said something about protecting Willow, so that must mean that Raimey had some kind of vendetta against the redhead. A reason to come after her.

_Maybe that's why she's so tense all the time?_ Tara shrugged. No matter. The point was, Raimey would be coming here. Raimey would find her.

Part of her was screaming at the thought, screaming so loudly that she felt as if her throat should hurt. But another, stronger part was calculating, considering...

She was risking everything, Tara knew. Everything she'd already risked so much to gain. Which, really, was only one thing after all. Freedom.

But if this worked, this wild, crazy, mad idea that had slid into her head sometime around when the fed offered her a way out of this taut, haunted place... If this worked...

Tara's lips curved in a slow, crooked smile. It was the smile of a creature that should have been too wounded to stand, but was somehow able to fly.

_And Willow._

The smile faded at once, and Tara felt a frightening drop in her stomach. _Honestly, Tara, you don't even know this woman. And it's obvious she has her own baggage._

_But can I really...?_

_Just keep your distance, and keep your mouth shut, remember? It'll all be fine. The feds are here, after all..._ And so Tara breathed out, and let herself begin the process of planning out this insanity, each thought tinged with an unfamiliar glint of hope.

If, in the back of her mind, the redheaded Willow Rosenberg's fragile, steely features refused to quite disappear into memory, Tara did not acknowledge the fact.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Willow tiptoed out of her study as the little alarm on her watch alerted her to the fact that it was 10 o'clock at night. She had spent the four and a half hours since coming home locked inside her office, trying to write. Key word: trying. When she'd picked up the gun, the feeling of almost eager power had worried Willow enough to make her put it carefully back, after reminding herself that it was definitely there if she were to need it. Then, she'd been startled by the sound of her own cell phone, and had talked briefly to Harry, explaining nothing of her current circumstances. And then, she had sat down and opened the current chapter of Nobody's Skin.

Now, four hours later, she had roughly a page more than when she'd started.

Which was enough of a clue to Willow that writing wasn't going to come easily tonight.

So, moving as quietly as she could, she crept towards the kitchen to find some food and maybe a drink. Nothing calmed the nerves like hot cocoa, right? Willow smiled at that, a rather more goofy smile than the one she allowed in public. She remembered the time when Xander had found her huddled in her bedroom of the flat the three of them had shared in college, scared out of her wits because of a midnight-special showing of _The Ring_. He'd laughed at her, she recalled, because she absolutely loved _The Silence of the Lambs_ and _The Shining_. _"I just have a thing about freaky kids,"_ she had said. And so he'd put an arm around her and led her into the kitchenette area, plopping a mug of homemade hot chocolate in front of her and saying _"Drink up, me bonny lass, and the God of Hot Chocolate will protect you from nasty beasties! Arrrr!"_

She was actually chuckling a little at the memory as she walked, less sneakily now, into the kitchen. So caught up was she in her plan to make some chocolatey goodness that Willow completely missed Tara's quiet, still form at the kitchen table. For a moment. And then, just as her hand closed on the kettle, her peripheral vision picked up the pale blue shirt and blond hair. She jumped, a small sound of surprise jolting from between her lips.

"Sorry, I d-didn't mean to scare y-you," the blond said apologetically, straightening from her slouched position.

"Were you- were you _sleeping_ in here?" Tara shrugged.

"I didn't w-want to interrupt, or steal y-your bed."

"There's a couch," Willow said uncertainly, her automatic defenses warring with her guilt for making someone sleep in a wooden chair.

"Oh, yeah," Tara said, and she sounded so sheepish that Willow had to duck her head to hide her smile. "I'll j-just g-g-_go_ there, then." She worked so hard to get that word out that Willow felt bad for her, and that must have been why she said what she said next.

"Do you like hot chocolate?"

Freeze frame.

_Did I seriously just do that?_ Willow pursed her lips, wondering if there was any graceful way to back out of the invitation without being even more rude than she'd been already.

There wasn't.

"Yes," Tara said, a soft curve to her lips. _Oh, hell._

"Because I'm making some, and I could always... I mean, if you..."

"I'd love some, thanks." She sat back down, probably guessing that if she offered to help, Willow might just turn and run.

Wordlessly, awkwardly, Willow poured boiling water into two porcelain mugs and stirred chocolate powder and a pinch of chili pepper into each. The heavenly smell, warm and inviting, calmed her enough to be steady as she took the few steps over to the table and set the happy-faced-doggie mug down in front of the other woman. She raised the other mug, decorated with a grinning woman on a broomstick and the words 'Sorry, Mom, I'm too busy learning witchcraft and being a lesbian for Church,' printed in large words around the rim. Willow's eyes, shying away from Tara's, fell on this message and she blushed immediately.

They sipped.

"This is r-really good," Tara said, breaking the silence. She sounded a little surprised.

"I always put a little chili pepper in," Willow acknowledged, in the same careful tone Tara had used. "The spicy counteracts the sweet."

"Cool."

Another long period of silence, as they both drank slowly and avoided actually looking across the table.

"I really d-didn't mean to scare you," the blond said suddenly, her eyes finding Willow's. "Or offend you, if I've... d-d-done that."

"No, you haven't," Willow replied, again having her conscience win out over her suspicion. There was no reason to suspect every single person she met of being a lying, heartless killer, right? Right. "I'm like that with everyone," she added, with just the right dose of careless laughter to take away the sharp edges of the statement itself.

"Oh. I like your mug," Tara offered, completely avoiding the usual awkward part that came after Willow's admission of her non-existent social skills: the pity, the curiosity, the questions, the throat-clearing. Willow's mouth opened, and then closed again. Finally, she coughed.

"Um, thanks. It... it was a present." From Buffy, of course.

"I used t-to have one like it. B-but it broke."

"Yeah, well, this one's been cracked up a lot," Willow said, lifting the mug to display the long crack that danced up the handle. "Doesn't spill, though."

"Not t-to big on churches, huh?"

"Oh, I'm Wiccan," Willow said, throwing out her second gauntlet. If people got far enough into a conversation with her for it to actually count as a conversation, she tended to bring up something about her that would make most people uncomfortable. It was a bad, defensive and negative habit, as she was fully aware, but she did it anyway. _Weeds out the jerks, at least..._

"R-really? D-d-dianic?" Willow blinked.

"No, eclectic."

"Me too," Tara said softly, and this time, that shy smile spread to a grin. Willow was momentarily struck dumb by the wattage of that slow, unselfconscious smile.

"...Wow," she finally managed, looking down into the dregs of her hot cocoa mug and regaining her composure. "Really? That's... nifty." _Nifty?_

"Yeah, i-it's not too often I r-run into another one, either."

"Well." Tara's grin slipped away, and Willow immediately wanted to bring it back. _Damn it, Wills, that is exactly what you were scared of before! Don't get caught up with this girl!_ It was, after all, dangerous to talk too much on this subject. After all, there was nothing that could bring two people closer together faster than shared religion. Well, that and... But there was no way on Earth _that_ was going to happen! Willow felt her face heat up for a second time, and silently cursed both the drink for soothing her nerves and the beauty across the table for firing them up again.

"S-so, thanks for the hot chocolate," Tara said after a moment, changing the subject. She was, it seemed, quite perceptive. Willow wasn't sure if she thought that was a good thing or not.

"No problem," she responded, giving the other woman a quick smile. Wishing she could give Tara the kind of smile _she'd_ just seen. _And that's just because it would be polite, right? I mean, you've been a total psychobitch to this woman, and she's kind of risking her life right now to stay here just so you can be rude to her? Hardly. Right. That's it._

"I'll g-go find that c-couch." The blond stood, reaching over to place her empty mug in the sink. Willow watched her, biting her lower lip, and then called out just as Tara was through the doorway.

"There's a guest bedroom upstairs. First door to your right." Tara looked back over her shoulder, another of those soft, magical smiles giving her face a glow that Willow could almost actually see.

"Thanks, Willow." And then, she was gone, and this time Willow was the one left alone at the kitchen table. Pushing her mug away, she let her head fall onto the table with a muffled thud.

"Ow."

As soon as she was out of the room and walking quickly towards the stairs down the hall, Tara let the smile drop. There was a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, one that the hot cocoa had not helped at all. Probably because that feeling wasn't sickness of the physical kind, but rather a more psychosomatic type of illness: guilt.

But she couldn't help it! As soon as Willow started talking, in that falsely calm, inwardly hesitant way of hers, Tara couldn't help herself. It was just too... too...

_You are being a bad girl, Tara,_ her father said inside her head. _A very bad girl._

But that smile... She'd finally eeked out a smile, one that Willow gave her willingly and didn't try to hide. It had been fast, sure, but it had also been real. And when the redhead had first entered the kitchen, she'd been grinning! Laughing to herself! _I want to make her laugh like that._

The thought didn't bring about the fluttering excitement Tara was used to feeling when it came to thinking about girls. Instead, it brought about a spinning, dizzy, unhappy feeling that made her reach out to the railing of the stairway to keep her balance. _Goddess, keep me strong enough to do this._

Goddess.

She was Wiccan, too. Willow Rosenberg was Wiccan. What were the odds?

_Don't even think about the odds, Tara Maclay! Don't even! _

So Tara found the guest bedroom, curled up on the bed without turning on the lights, and gave a long, heavy sigh. _I thought I left this all behind me._

_And I did,_ she added to herself. _The lies, the hiding, the fear. As soon as this is over, it will all be over. Forever._


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_**AN: Sorry this chapter is a little short, but I thought it best to cut it off where I did. You'll see why.**_

Willow woke early, having been plagued by dreams that she could not quite recall, but that had left her with a distinct feeling of discomfort. She went to the bathroom that connected to her own bedroom, and washed her face. The cool water against her skin made her blink and wipe at her eyes, waking them fully. She stayed there a moment, gazing at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Willow noticed vaguely that she wasn't focusing on her usual fallbacks: the paleness of her skin, the circles under her eyes. Instead, she raised a hand and tugged at a disheveled lock of burnt crimson hair, taking notice of the intense contrast between it and her wide green eyes for the first time in years. Without allowing herself to think on the reasons for her actions, Willow slid the mirror to the left, revealing the medicine cabinet hidden behind it. She picked up her fine-bristled brush and began to drag it through her hair, taming the fuzzy knots and giving it more of a sheen than it had had for a long time.

Finished brushing, Willow washed her face again, this time actually taking the time to use the citrus-scented soap that Buffy had sent her a few months back. When she looked up at her reflection for a second time, Willow saw that her cheeks actually had some color to them, and that her mouth didn't look quite so tight and controlled.

_I'm making myself pretty for Tara_, Willow thought to herself, and this time did not immediately punish herself for the idea. She remembered that soft smile, the encouraging way Tara had taken her hot chocolate. Maybe... just maybe...

Well, no use thinking like that. They'd only spent an hour or so talking; there was no need to go to any extremes. Willow ran a hand over her chin-length bob, and gave herself a quick, somewhat sheepish smile._Take it slow. Wait and see. Do not get your hopes up, and do not do something stupid._

Willow slipped out of the bathrobe she slept in and pulled on a pair of baggy slacks, unconsciously trying to sabotage the effort she'd taken in brushing her hair. She matched the slacks with a black tunic top, one with sleeves long enough not to show any skin between where they ended and where the ever-present opera gloves began.

Padding towards the kitchen, Willow went to the window and looked out. Though her view was blocked, she could feel the presence of the FBI agents stationed to guard her as if by... well, magic. It was early morning still, and the sun was just rising. Willow, still at the window, was caught by one of the first dizzying rays of light that arched through the glass. It fell across her face, making her squint her eyes against the unexpected brightness, and Willow fancied she felt a tinge of warmth.

How long had it been since she'd done just this? Just stood there in the sunlight, feeling it wash over her skin? Too long, Willow decided. But then, just as her lips were curving in the soft ghost of pleasure, Willow recalled sharply why she'd come to the window in the first place. FBI.

Cole Raimey.

She backed away from the window, her bare feet unknowingly falling into the swath of sunlight that lay across the floor. Willow turned from the glass and walked to the stove, putting on the kettle for tea. Her hands, as she reached for a mug hanging on one of the hooks above the stove, were steady, and Willow couldn't help but straighten a bit. She felt, through the familiar stir of fear and uncertainty, the remnants of that simple warmth from standing alone in the sun. She felt, in fact, just a little bit strong.

Willow had gone through two cups of tea and a few small bites of a piece of toast by the time Tara entered the room. The blond, it appeared, had slept about as well as Willow herself. Her skin was a little paler than it had been the night before, and her eyes looked tired. Still, Willow saw that she was moving with a decidedly unexhausted unconscious grace and softness of limb that made the redhead's heart beat just a small bit faster.

"Good morning," Tara said, seating herself opposite Willow in a mirror of their positions the night before.

"Morning," Willow replied, gruffly. The instant increase in heart rate had thrown her off balance, and Willow found that she was suddenly nervous in a way completely foreign to her. Tara looked at the kettle on the stove, and then smiled a little.

"Mind if I h-have some tea?"

"Sure." She knew that she was not holding up to her decision to stop being so rude to Tara for no reason, but Willow's monosyllabic answers didn't seem to be offending the blonde woman, so she didn't make the situation even more awkward by trying to apologize for her bluntness.

"I thought I'd d-d-do some w-work upstairs t-today, if that's all right," Tara offered, sipping quietly at her tea.

"That's fine." There was a pause. "I... I don't think I thanked you last night." Willow cleared her throat before continuing, not looking at the other woman. "For staying, I mean. I do... um, I appreciate... Well, I guess my friends would say I could use the company, so..." She forced herself to stop, recognizing the dangerous signs of babbling. Willow cursed to herself, fighting the urge to run a hand roughly through her hair. This was ridiculous. She hadn't acted like this during their conversation last night! She had been downright_reserved_, in fact!

"Oh! no, it's no problem," Tara insisted, an odd quickness to her response. "I, I n-need the work. L-like I said."

"Right, of course," Willow answered, quite coolly, if she did say so herself. She still wouldn't look up from her mug. (A very respectable one this time, of course. A college mug, in fact.)

"And..." The redhead did look up then, swiftly, her eyes flicking to Tara's face. The blond had a curious look, as if she were struggling with something. Then- "I d-did like the s-s-sound of an adventure." Willow scoffed.

"Hardly. Raimey is no adventure. You'd be better off if you'd left the instant Henderson offered you the chance." She had taken the moment to gulp down the last of her tea, and so missed the flash of agreement in Tara's eyes.

"W-what happened? If you d-don't mind me asking?" Willow set down her mug, pushing her chair away and standing.

"I have to get some work done," she said, the uncertain hesitance of her first speech gone from her voice. "I'll set aside some clothes for you, so you can change."

"Thanks," Tara replied, twisting in her chair to watch Willow's exit. When the redhead was gone, Tara stood also. She put both cups in the sink, turned, and then turned back and rinsed them. Placing the cleaned mugs upside down on a cloth she'd laid beside the sink the previous day, Tara ran one finger around the bottom rim of the first one.

Then, breaking from her momentary reverie, she went to find the clothes Willow had promised.

88888888888

"So you understand the rules."

"Of course I do."

"Just making sure, my friend. Any fuckups, and you're going right back where you came from. On second thought, you won't even make it back."

"I _said_ I under_stood_," the second man said coldly, the emphases on certain words or syllables barely coming through the dry monotone of his voice.

"Don't snap at me," the first man countered easily, holding up his hands in mocking amiability. "I'm the one who organized this whole thing."

"You're the one who paid for it, yes." The first man frowned, still looking friendly, but when he spoke, it was with a soft, humming menace, like that of a snake reassuring its prey.

"Now, don't be like that," he said. "I know we haven't always gotten along in the past, but you and my father go way back. Show a little respect."

"The relationship between your father and I was hardly one of respect." The first man sighed.

"Fine. Ignore the respect bullshit," he agreed, all pretenses of amicability dropping from his tone and body language. Now, his voice was flat and filled with jaded threat. "He paid you before, and I'm paying you now, so all you need to worry about is getting the job done." Then, just as quickly as they had vanished, the friendly mannerisms returned. "Besides, my man," he continued, clapping his companion on the back and ignoring the dangerous glint in the other's eye, "we're giving you that little bonus on the side. Remember?"

There was no reply, but only a small, thoughtful tilt of the mouth. The first man smiled cruelly, and bent towards his companion.

"That's right, Cole, old boy. You do this little favor for me, and we'll hand you good old Doctor R. on a silver platter."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Tara coughed. Tugged at the hem of the navy blue shirt. Cleared her throat. Felt like coughing again.

It was... a bit small.

Small enough, in fact, to reveal a solid two inches of pale skin above the waistband of the nicely elastic exercise pants.

So she was a little better endowed than her employer. Happened all the time!

But...

"Oh, please," Tara muttered to herself. "Just go find her and ask for another shirt! _Or just wear your own again..._ She gave a short sigh and pulled it off, folding it automatically before placing it on the guest bed. As she reached for her own shirt, which was hanging haphazardly from the bedside table, the door swung open. Tara yelped, whirling around. There was a split second of perfectly awful stillness, where Tara, the shirt dangling from one hand, stared at the open-mouthed Willow. The redhead's eyes were locked, impossibly wide, on the expanse of bare skin between her collarbone and her belly button, with only a small bit of that skin hidden under a dark blue bra. And then, Willow blushed furiously and Tara choked as she whipped the shirt up to hide her chest.

"Uh, um, I just- I mean, I- the door, it, you... Sweater?" The redhead finished her run-on sentences with a lopsided, awkward smile as she held out a large, soft-looking knitted sweater. Tara took it quickly, and had barely closed her fingers around the garment before Willow backed out of the room and yanked the door shut.

Tara sat down hard on the bed, pulling her shirt on rapidly. She put the sweater on a little more slowly, taking the time to notice how much her hands were trembling. _Oh, hell's bells, _she thought. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, and knew that the flush had spread from her face to the tops of her breasts. She wondered, a tad bit wildly, if she'd been blushing this hard before she'd managed to cover herself up, and whether or not Willow had liked the contrast between the bright pink and pale white of her skin. _Liked it? LIKED it? She was horrified, Tara! She couldn't get out of here fast enough! _The thought, instinctively self-deprecating, annoyed Tara.

"Well, why shouldn't she have l-liked it," she muttered to herself, and then immediately let out a breath. _Stop it. You're being stupid._ Smoothing a hand over her hair, Tara rose to her feet and took a few experimental steps towards the door. No shaking. No toppling over. All good signs.

Pushing open the door, she poked her head into the hallway. Seeing no one, Tara stepped out of the room and walked quickly towards the bathroom at the end of the hall, resolving to spend the next few hours locked inside it. Cleaning, of course.

It had probably been years since that bathroom had been cleaned, Tara knew, so it would undoubtedly take a _long_ time. Maybe even all day. Just no help for it.

As she pulled the bathroom door open, Tara saw a flash of movement at the other end of the hall, but by the time she turned around fully, Miss Rosenberg had vanished.

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"Oh. My. Goddess."

Willow was sitting downstairs, in her study, in her safe place. She was at her desk, her hands splayed flat against the wood. _I saw her shirtless. I saw her shirtless. I saw her-_

She cleared her throat loudly, trying to cut off the spiraling train of thought. It didn't work. _Pale skin, smooth skin, supple curves, round..._

"I'm in trouble," Willow groaned aloud, massaging her closed eyes. "I'm in big, big trouble."

She'd seen Tara heading for the upstairs bathroom, and hadn't been able to bring herself to say anything. To apologize.

_Damn it! _

Her heart was still racing, her breath coming in little shudders. She had _not_ included this in the plan for the day! Willow pulled off her gloves, a bit roughly, jerking her hands in front of her face. She waited for the familiar disgust, the self-hatred, the coldness.

It didn't come.

She saw the scars, yes. But now, Willow's eyes couldn't seem to focus on them. Her gaze fell on her own skin, the white, fragile smoothness of it, beneath the burns. Her long, strong fingers. She shook her hands, as if they were machines that weren't doing their job. Swallowing, Willow found herself breathing harder than before, huge gulps of air that still weren't quite enough. Her trump card, her ace, her final defense, wasn't working.

Slowly, _slowly_, her belly filled with the old, familiar twist of sickness as she turned her palms over, tracing the webbing up her wrists.

She touched her cheek, feeling the roughness of her fingers. Three years ago, her fingertips were as smooth as her face. Three years ago, before Cole Raimey tried to burn her alive.

And there. There it was. There was the hate, the fear, the anger.

But so slow! It hadn't come in its usual rush, the old torrent of feeling that nearly overwhelmed her ever time. It had been insidious, creeping, an acidic kind of emotive spill. She'd had to... she'd had to _work _at it. And even while part of her received this knowledge with a careful sort of wonder, another part backed away in horror.

_What's happening to me?_


	10. Chapter 10

The first time was almost an accident. It had been late, and dark, and the girl had been so eager for something just a little bit naughty. She had practically crawled into the handcuffs, begging him to make it hurt just a bit. Her voice, half-choked by the pressure of his fingers around her throat, had been lined with _sex_, and he'd been blinded by it. By the time he realized that she'd stopped talking, it was too late; climax was upon him. By the time he realized she'd stopped _breathing_, too, it hadn't been a major upset. After all, he'd finished with her, hadn't he?

Raimey was eighteen years old when he killed the girl in Washington, her death a muffled, muted ecstasy in the cheap bedroom of a Motel 6.

When he saw how easy it was, and how little it affected him, it was like first grade math. An equation of simple, single-digit life. They always tell you to do what you're good at, don't they?

Now, sitting in a rented maroon Volvo, Raimey reflected back on that night, almost twenty years past. There had been a few other pleasure kills, and then a long string of business hits that had, eventually, gotten him locked up with seven life sentences and a pending death penalty.

_And now, with just a little more business out of the way, I can try my hand at the old kill-for-fun game again_, he thought, a little smile curving his thin lips. _Starting with the Doc, of course. She was always so helpful_.

The thought of Willow Rosenberg, with her petite frame and her lush red hair, sent a jolt of ribbony lust through his gut. Raimey remembered the first time they'd met, when he was still... employed. His employer, in fact, had been the one to send him to a psychiatrist; the old bastard hadn't been a fool, and hadn't been one for taking chances, either. He'd seen the way Raimey made his kills, and eventually had laid down an ultimatum: shape up, or disappear. Permanently. So Raimey had made the wise choice, and gone to the address he'd been handed.

For the longest time, ol' Doc R. had thought he was just an accountant from Missouri with obsessive compulsive disorder and a tendency towards mild, controllable social anxiety disorder.

And then, Raimey had decided enough was enough. He'd gone through seven months of therapy, and everyone has their limits.

So that was when he'd taken the Doc back to his nondescript, owned-under-another-name rural South Carolina home, tied her to a birch tree, and set her on fire.

Raimey smiled at the memory, putting aside the fact that it was that incident that had actually gotten him arrested and put away. He had another chance, now. Just find Miss Maclay, and then-

888888888

"Do you want a sandwich?"

"What?"

"A s-sandwich." Willow looked up from her computer, where she'd finally gotten some writing done, to see Tara standing demurely in the doorway, completely decent. It was almost three, Willow realized, and the plate the blond was holding smelled almost ridiculously good. "It's grilled cheese."

"Sure," Willow replied, willing herself not to blush. _It was nothing. We're both women. Women see other women shirtless all the time._ She stood up, reaching out to take the plate. Sitting back down, she swiveled in her chair to face the computer again. It was rude, yes, but she honestly wasn't sure she could handle a prolonged confrontation with the other woman right then.

There was a pause, and then retreating footsteps.

When the door snicked quietly shut, Willow let out a breath. She was suddenly unsure of whether or not she was relieved at all.

Peeling off her gloves, Willow laid them carefully beside her keyboard. She picked up the grilled cheese sandwich, inhaling once, and then took a bite. She moaned before she could help it, and was then very glad indeed that Tara had left the room. Looking at the sandwich, Willow noted that there were several different shades of melted cheesy delight, and wondered how long the blond had taken in preparing it. Shaking her head, Willow finished the rest of the grilled cheese in a matter of minutes, making sure to lick the grease from her fingertips. There was also a small pile of Saltine crackers on the plate, which made her snort a little. Apparently, Tara couldn't find much in the kitchen to work with. Willow wasn't surprised.

She picked up one of the crackers and ate it, breaking it in two and then swallowing the halves. There was a tearing pain in the bottom of her throat as one of the halves turned sideways and refused to go down; Willow coughed loudly and swallowed again.

"Are you ok?" The voice from behind her was so unexpected that Willow almost choked again, and spun around. Tara stood about two feet from the door, a glass of water in one hand. _She must have come in when I coughed the first time_, Willow thought rapidly. Then, she saw that Tara wasn't looking at her face at all. Instead, those soft eyes were fixed on a point decidedly lower. There was an instant of mixed indignation and pleasure, when Willow thought she must be staring at her chest, but then those emotions joined forces and turned to unabated horror as she realized that it wasn't her chest at all.

_My gloves!_

Instantly, Willow snatched at the desk, her bare, scarred hands moving like lightning. She pulled her gloves on harshly, ducking her head so that her hair fell across her face to hide her expression.

"Thank you for the food," she said roughly, smoothing her covered hands across her lap. "Please leave me alone. I have to work."

"Willow..." Sharply, Willow looked up. Her face, she knew, was a mask of self-composure. Tara's, on the other hand, was... somewhat different. "I brought you some water."

The blond walked across the room, holding out the glass. Slowly, without dropping her gaze, Willow reached out and took it. Tara didn't quite let go as soon as Willow touched the glass, however; for a long moment, their fingers lay there side by side. Willow could feel the warmth of Tara's skin through the thin leather of her gloves, and then her breathing was coming just a little bit faster.

"Thank you," she said again, much softer now. Tara let go, her hand dropping to her side. The blond woman paused, her lips barely parted, seeming to be debating something inwardly. Then, with a slight, natural smile, she held out the hand again.

"Do you have a hairb-b-band I could borrow?" It was all Willow could do not to drop her jaw, the question was so out of the blue.

"Um, yes," she answered, after a moment of silence. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a black hairtie and held it out. Tara took it, pulling her honey-colored waterfall into a high ponytail. Picking up the plate, she turned to leave the room.

Willow nearly gasped aloud at the sight of the thin, razor-wire-like scar that threaded across the back of Tara's neck. The wound, whatever it was, had been deep enough to leave a raised white line that was clear and distinct against Tara's skin, despite having been hidden until now by the fall of her hair. Turning her head slightly, Tara shot Willow a shy, but strangely self-assured, smile.

"Funny what comes out when you change just a little," she said, before walking out of the room. Though her voice was quiet and measured, she didn't stutter at all.


	11. Chapter 11

"Hello?"

"Jesus Christ, Wills, you wanna tell me what the hell is going on?!" Xander's voice, usually so easygoing and light, was thin with worry. Willow's hand flew to her mouth, her cheeks flushing with surprise and guilt.

"Shit, Xand, I'm sorry. I completely forgot to... Oh, goddess, you must hate me right now." There was a long silence, and Willow could hear the soft, measured clicking sound of the FBI phone tap in the background.

"Well, I don't know," Xander replied at last, sounding much more in control. "You haven't called me in two days, and when I drove by the place on my way downtown this afternoon, there were some majorly suspicious cars just hanging around outside. Are you being really unprofessionally stalked, or something?" She laughed a little, and heard him catch his breath in surprise at the sound.

"No, I... Well, it's- I don't know if I'm allowed to talk to you, actually."

"...if you're allowed? Willow, what's going on?" She sighed, the amusement fading.

"The people outside are with the FBI, Xand. I've got to stay inside for a while, but it's ok. Tara's here, too."

"Tara? Wait, the cleaning girl?" He snorted disbelievingly. "You're telling me that you're locked in your own house with someone you barely know and you're ok with this? That's-" Then, Xander broke off sharply, and swallowed. "FBI? Is this... Shit, Willow."

"Raimey's out."

"How?" Now, Xander's voice was deadly calm. Willow let out a breath, closing her eyes.

"I don't know. They don't know. But they're watching the house just in case."

"When did he escape?"

"A few days ago. He could be anywhere."

"I'm calling Buffy." Willow's eyes flew open, and she threw out a hand as if he could see her.

"No! Xander, no. There's nothing you can do, and there's nothing she can do, either. The cops are here, and-"

"And a fat lot of good they did you three years ago," Xander interrupted furiously. "The only reason that bastard didn't finish the job was because Buffy was coming to pick you up for lunch and when she saw how trashed your office was, she followed the GPS in your cell phone!"

"I know," Willow said in a low voice, turning to press her forehead against one of the kitchen cabinets. She placed the hand that she'd flung out against the wood beside her head, long fingers splayed near the handle. "But that was then, and this is now. Buffy was lucky. I was lucky. Dragging her all the way across the country just so-"

"It wouldn't be dragging, Wills," Xander said, more gently now. "She loves you. I love you. Like we're just gonna leave you to the wolves now?"

"I'm hardly being 'left to the wolves', Xander. FBI, remember? Just because they weren't the first ones on the scene that day doesn't mean we shouldn't trust them. I mean, come on. Have you seen Silence Of The Lambs?" This made him laugh, and Willow was glad of it. The tension waned.

"You just like that movie because of Jodie Foster."

"Well, what can I say? Jodie's a fox. 'Specially with a gun."

"Aren't you all Wicca-y? No violence and all that?"

"I didn't say anything about firing the gun," Willow modified primly.

"Right. Well." He paused. "You... you sound good, Will." She smiled to herself, just a little. Straightening away from the cabinet, Willow turned around to see Tara tiptoeing through the doorframe, dirty rag in hand.

"Thanks. I am... better," she said finally, biting her lip. "Surprisingly enough."

"And this whole Tara thing is ok? No wigging out?"

"No," Willow replied slowly, silently pointing at the drawer beneath the sink as Tara mouthed the words 'laundry detergent'. The blond knelt, opened the drawer, pulled out the box, and quirked her brow at Willow. Laundry detergent in the kitchen? The shorter woman shrugged, and then tilted her head back towards the telephone. "No, I think it's going to be ok, actually."

"Ok. Ok, good. Uh, I... They're taping this conversation, right?"

"Sure are."

"Yeah, I thought I heard some weird tapping noises. Well. I'll let you go now, I guess, but I'm not going far. And if you need anything- if anything happens-"

"You'll be the first."

* * *

After he hung up, Xander stared at the phone for a moment. His brow furrowed, head wavering from side to side. Confusion, relief, fear and determination fought it out inside his skull.

Then, mouth tightening, he reached for the base of the telephone and started dialing.

"Yeah, Buff? We have a problem." 

* * *

Sitting down for tea. They were sitting down for tea.

Somehow, this concept struck Tara as highly amusing, in a surreal sort of way. They'd had meals together, sure, and coffee and hot chocolate... But tea? Tea was different. Tea was homey, and if you did it more than once, then it was both scheduled and homey, which was just... Different.

And kinda nice.

"So," she said after a beat, careful to keep her eyes on her mug. "Silence Of The Lambs, huh?" Willow, sitting across the table from her as always, coughed.

"Well, yeah." She smiled sheepishly, and Tara mentally catalogued that smile with an unexpected greed.

"Too scary for me," Tara offered. "L-lecter always m-m-made me cringe."

"Oh, I love him," Willow told her, still looking sheepish. Her eyes, though, were bright. "Well. Maybe 'love' isn't the right word. But... he's so interesting. Psychologically, I mean." Tara nodded. Then, with a half-shrug that she was trying very hard to keep from looking self-conscious, she spoke again.

"The only thing that g-got me through it was J-jodie Foster. She's-"

"-such a babe," Willow finished for her. Their eyes met.

"I'm s-sorry for listening in on y-your conversation," Tara said quickly, uncomfortable with the silence, "b-but I only heard that last b-b-bit." She ducked her head, furious with her tongue for refusing to let the words come smoothly.

"It's ok," Willow reassured her quietly, uncertainly. "I mean," she continued with a small chuckle, "it's true."

"Yeah. D-did you see Flight Plan?" The redhead scoffed.

"Netflix, as soon as it was out." Tara grinned, unable to help herself. I'm talking to Willow Rosenberg about girls. I'm talking about girls with Willow Rosenberg. Willow and I are talking about Jodie frigging Foster.

Wait. Wait, Tara, calm down. It's not like you're flirting with her or-

"The Brave One is coming out soon," Tara said, interrupting her own brain. "We could order that a-and watch it here."

...ok, you're so flirting with her.

"Maybe," Willow replied, taking another sip of her Tazo. Then, she looked at Tara again, and smiled.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_She was driving fast. Perhaps too fast. Probably too fast. But the fingers on the black leather steering wheel were white with stress, and the slim body was tense... this speed was necessary. Buffy Summers, her blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck, her hazel eyes shaded by dark, mirrored frames, turned off the main highway so sharply that the back of the car fishtailed to the left. Her cell phone, lying on the passenger seat beside her, hummed lowly. Periodically, it emitted a short, high sound. Buffy ignored it. Her eyes darted instead to the GPS screen set into the dashboard, and the glowing red dot that pulsated there, sending out radiating rings of light like a blip on a sonar screen._

_The turn off the highway left the buildings and gas stations behind, and she found them replaced by trees and some paved, some unpaved streets leading off into the green. Buffy swallowed, her mind racing. The peaceful scenery seemed at odds with the sick, twisting fear that was growing in her belly, and suddenly she hated it all. The mailbox with the bright robin painted on the side was almost painful to pass, and she wanted to drag her hand through the twines of honeysuckle thick by the road, to tear it from the ground and make it feel the same jerking uncertainty that she felt._

_When Willow hadn't answered the buzz to her office, when no one knew whether the Doc had gone out or not, when Buffy had finally huffed and clomped her way up the stairs to the redhead's home base, when she'd found the mess of papers and the broken lamp..._

_Buffy shuddered reflexively, flashing back to the shattered pieces of lamp that covered the floor and part of the desk. As if someone had grabbed it and hit something, hit something hard... Like a petite young woman who could no more throw a punch than walk on water. For some reason, this thought made the blond nearly choke on a low, anxious giggle. She fought back the laugh, coldly aware of its utter lack of humor._

_Following the silent, ominously red blip that was Willow Rosenberg's GPS-equipped phone, which Buffy knew she always kept in the inside zip pocket of her jacket (and the jacket hadn't been there, hadn't been at the office, so she must have been wearing it, must _be_ wearing it...), she took another turn, this time onto one of the pleasantly canopied smaller roads. It was paved, but the job looked- and felt- like an old one; the pavement was cracked and falling away at the edges. The wheels of Buffy's police issue car dipped violently, and she nearly bit the tip of her tongue off. In the rear-view mirror, the pothole gaped after her like an open mouth in that cool, sun-dappled strip of street._

_One more turn, this one a right, and Buffy was on a gravel road that wound through the South Carolina countryside like a river. She could see smoke rising from somewhere, almost hidden by foliage. It was dark, thick, and filled her with dread._

_Buffy pulled carefully off the road and parked, the pulsating sign of Willow's phone overlapping with her own dot on the map. Swallowing, she stepped out of the car and drew her gun. Procedure or no procedure, this was Willow. _

_Locking the car, she made her way along the side of the road, stepping over small piles of gravel spit from past cars. The smoke was more clearly visible now, and the smell of it pervaded the air. It was a fatty, rich stench, like that of very fine wood... or animal flesh. No sooner had _that_ lovely thought entered her head then Buffy's nostrils flared with another odor, and this one far more recognizable. _

_Burning hair._

_She forced herself not to run, for fear of making too much noise, but her legs seemed to actually lengthen to make room for the long strides that were carrying her faster, faster, but maybe not fast enough, towards the smoke. She held the gun with both hands, pointed up, one thumb on the safety. _

_There were sounds now. Muffled, covered by the loud crackle and roar of fire, but sounds. Human sounds._

_And then, Buffy came through the trees, and Buffy saw._

_At first, see, there was just a house. A medium, nondescript white house. Windows closed. A red door._

_And then, there was the stake that stood beside it to the left, pounded into the ground. 10 feet or so of thick, sturdy oak, with 5'5'' feet or so of bound, screaming Willow tied to it. Buffy took in the kindling piled around the base of the stake, with fire crawling and spreading across it. There was more kindling at the back of the stake, she saw, almost clinically, and the fire there had already reached Willow's twisting, rope-tangled hands. She saw it lighting on the sleeve of the redhead's denim jacket, hissing and catching at the long auburn hair._

_There was a man standing in front of the burning woman, arms flung out with glee. He was saying something, but Buffy couldn't hear. Her heart was the loudest thing now, steady and cold and rhythmic. It calmed her shaking hands, and made her feet strong and sure as she strode forwards towards the stake and the man, leveled the gun, and fired twice._

_Buffy didn't even glance down as she passed him, after he'd crumpled to the ground. She went to the side of the house, grabbed the hose that was coiled on the wall, and wrenched it on. The steady, cop-calm of her heartbeat was gone now, now that the gun had recoiled into her hand and the shots were hanging in the air, and she was whispering prayers she would never remember later as she tugged at the hose. Gurgling, spitting, and then rushing, the water sprayed onto the stake and the kindling and the woman. It hissed where it hit, like acid rain, and Buffy was crying as she watched the steam rise. She clapped a hand to her pocket, and felt a jolt of shock that seemed almost unfair in its intensity when her palm found only cloth. Her phone, of course, was in the car, humming away in the passenger seat._

"_Fuck," Buffy whispered, and then dropped the hose and hurried to the stake. Willow was slumped against the rope that held her against the wood, her chin brushing her chest. The stench of burned skin hung around her like a cloud. "Oh, god," the blond said, gently reaching into the redhead's open jacket and pulling out her phone. "Oh, god." She looked down at the phone, and bit her lip. It was flashing a single, devastating message: **Missed Call: Buffy Summers**. _

_After the FBI came, and the ambulances, and the state police, Buffy was left in the hospital waiting room with her head in her hands. Cole Raimey had been taken into custody with a bullet in his right thigh and a hole in his side... but he would live. Willow Rosenberg, on the other hand..._

_It wasn't long before Xander showed up, bringing a box of donuts that neither of them touched. Buffy told him, quietly and calmly, what had happened at the Raimey house. Xander's eyes got hard, but she put a hand on his arm and he let his head fall back against the wall and did not move._

_It took three hours for a doctor to come out and, in a low voice, inform them that Willow was alive. That she was stabilized. That two inches of hair had been burned off, along with the skin from both her hands up to the wrists. Severe burns continued to the elbows. Her feet had been mostly protected by the thick boots she'd been wearing, and the burns on her ankles and calves were minor, due to the uneven dispersion of kindling and the heavy jeans. _

"_We'll be able to graft skin from her back or thighs to replace what's beyond repair," the soft-spoken doctor added. "She'll have scarring, of course, but more importantly, she might have nerve damage. We haven't determined the full extent of the burns in that respect, but it's possible that she may never have full use of her hands again."_

_Months later, after surgery, therapy, all of it, Willow was a woman who would wear gloves for the rest of her life... but there was no lasting nerve damage. The skin grafting went well, with relatively little scarring, considering. _

_But beyond that, and below that, as both Buffy and Xander knew, their friend was a woman... shattered._

_88888888888888_

When Buffy hung up the phone, it wasn't loudly. It wasn't slammed down. Her hands were not shaking.

Alan Colbert, however, who was standing across the room at the communal fridge, looked up, saw the expression on her face, and dropped his soda.

88888888888888

Willow lay on her back, the fuzzy bathrobe untied, and smiled. She was holding a mug of hot tea on her stomach, warming the skin just below the ribcage through the robe. Through the door and down the hall, she could hear the quiet sounds of Tara moving around, closing a door. Their conversation earlier had been left at Jodie Foster, but Willow could still feel it in the air around her, as if their words had become real and tangible and weren't leaving. There was a warm, infant glow somewhere inside her, and it wasn't just from the tea.

Soothed by chamomile and a shower, her eyes not on her scars but on the smooth white ceiling, Willow allowed herself to contemplate the rare idea of falling in love.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"Ah, Virginia." The rolling hills, the clear, humid air... Birdsong even in the cities. Raimey breathed deep, his hands flexing in the pockets of his jeans. He was so close, now. He fancied he could _smell_ her, the sweet doctor. Fresh little Willow. He remembered her scent, of course, and now it was everywhere. After all, he was only a few short miles from the old house she called home. Finally.

The driving had put him off. He wasn't a big fan of driving, Raimey; it bored him. Mindless. Too easy to be hypnotized, taken in by the road. But now he was _here_, and soon, he'd be _there_.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't be as soon as he'd hoped. For one thing, there was the trivial detail of the FBI. They were casing the house, of course. Waiting for him. That would be a problem, but not an insurmountable one... when he was ready. But first, he still had that little job to take care of. Tara Maclay.

_Tara Maclay._

Now, so near to his unofficial prey, Raimey allowed himself to consider his official one. The target.

Tara Maclay, the blond. She _was_ blond, wasn't she? He remembered that. He remembered... oh, what, now... He remembered a curvy girl, all big eyes and long hair. The daughter of- yes. And Donnie's sister, of course. _Donald_. Raimey sneered, and then went back to his memories.

"_Do you need anything else?"_

"_No, this is enough. You want it quiet, or splashy?"_

"_Give it something special, Cole. A message." He smiles, both excited and contemptuous. _

"_Of course. Speaking of messages, your kid's getting one right now." He gestures towards the door, where a slight figure stands, wide-eyed, bandaged around the neck. He wiggles his fingers. A cruel thing. "Run along, girl, before I give you another... surprise."_

"So," Raimey said, drifting casually back into the present. "Daddy's little girl did something _bad_, did she?"

Although, really. He wasn't that surprised. Daughters of the mob never did have it easy.

_8888888888_

The plane was late. Goddamnit, the plane was late.

Buffy hated waiting. And she especially hated waiting in airports. Something about the mass anonymity, the awful melting pot of bad hygiene masquerading as sterility that always seemed to overtake the bathrooms, the faceless voices over loudspeakers... it irked her. Put her on edge. Sitting in the cheap plastic chair closest to the boarding gate, she tapped her toes and pretended away her unease. Her bag, packed in an hour and filled to the brim, made an uneven sort of footrest. In her lap, she held a paperback copy of an Anne Rice vampire novel, the spine uncracked.

After Xander's phone call, she'd checked the database. Not that she'd doubted him, per se, but... it was always nice to know for sure. And yes, it was sure. Cole Raimey was gone, and it wasn't too hard to guess where he was going.

Buffy only thanked god she was due for leave anyway.

Dawn, naturally, had been pissed. But when Buffy mentioned Willow's name, the annoyance had melted into the worry that was so natural now.

"Is she ok?"

"I hope so," Buffy'd said grimly, and that had been that.

Now, sitting impatiently among the melange of other passengers looking to fly cross-country, Buffy wondered if she was doing the right thing. Then, as if to counter the doubt, she wondered if she was already too late.

Feeling kind of sick, the blond looked at the gray carpeting on the floor. She _really_ hated airports.

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"So," Willow said, with a small smile. "It's been four days. Sorry you decided to stay yet?" She was sitting across from Tara at the dining room table, the remnants of a scraped-together Mexican-themed dinner between them. The blond's lips twitched.

"N-not yet," she replied. "Especially since I've g-gotten so much more done with the house." Willow laughed, for the _third time_ that dinner. _That_ thought made her happy. And afraid. But mostly happy.

"Yeah, well, points to you. Honestly, I can barely even recognize it. Who knew I had a floor?" Tara smiled outright now, playing with her fork.

"The w-woodwork is beautiful, you should keep it this clean."

"Hell, the only way that'd happen is if I kept _you_ around," Willow tossed out without thinking. Then, in the long pause that followed, she felt herself blush. The pause was nearly, nearly awkward... but somehow not, too.

"Well," Tara said finally, her face reddish, and then a clap of thunder cut off anything she'd been about to say. Willow jumped despite herself, and then glanced at the ceiling as if she could see through it.

"Startled me," she said, sheepish.

"Me too."

"It's a good thing I was never afraid of thunder, though," Willow continued musingly. Then, looking down, "One of the few things, I guess, right?" Tara didn't answer, but tilted her head. Encouraging. Swallowing, Willow kept talking.

"My dad used to say that thunder was the laughter of God. Then, when I grew up enough to find my own religion, I liked that idea so much that I'd tell myself the Goddess just heard a dirty joke. Or, no, _I_ wouldn't say that; my friend Buffy did. I was way too sheltered to think of dirty jokes."

"I like that," Tara offered, as another roll of thunder cracked across the sky. "I a-always loved stories l-like that. Never did hear any growing up, though." There was a sadness there, well-hidden, but Willow picked it up anyway. Years of training weren't for nothing, after all, were they? She leaned forward, her hair falling across her cheeks.

"Didn't you?"

"No," Tara said softly, dropping her eyes. "All my childhood stories were scary ones, and I didn't like those."

"I used to love ghost stories," Willow tried. "Did you have nightmares?" The blond shook her head, a funny sort of smile twisting her mouth.

"They weren't ghost stories... and they always came true." Willow noted that her stutter was practically gone. And that, no matter what she said about no ghost stories, there was something haunted in those blue eyes.

"I know what that's like," she said, very quiet. Tara looked up sharply, and Willow could see the struggle on her face: hide, or stay. It was, after all, a struggle that Willow herself dealt with almost every day. "When the monsters are real."

A silence.

"But there's enough monsters out there already, without us bringing them into the room," Willow added, standing. She felt strange, now. Stronger. Almost... well, almost like her old self. As if seeing even the barest shadow of Tara's pain, so different and yet so alike her own, had shifted something in her. Something that had been asleep for far too long.

"You're right," Tara said, naked relief in her voice. "M-movie?"

"Sure. Let me get the dishes."

And when they sat down to Practical Magic, and Tara's hand brushed against Willow's reaching for a pillow, the redhead almost jumped out her skin with the realization that she'd taken her gloves off to wash the plates... and that Tara hadn't even flinched.


	14. Chapter 14

Ch. 14

When the movie was over, it was past ten. Outside, Tara imagined, the cops or feds or whoever was manning the surveillance car would be settling in with a cup of coffee, radio turned on low. Jazz. They always played jazz at night; she'd never really understood it. Jazz made her feel oddly uncomfortable, like being alone in a shady bar. But she wasn't alone now, and Willow's hand against hers felt far from strange. Their hands, flat beside each other on the couch seat between them, had moved from not touching, to brushing, to solidly against each other through the course of the movie. Tara had been both too nervous and too indecisive to take the final leap and grab the redhead's hand, intertwining their fingers as every nerve in her body was begging her to do. Still, the warmth of Willow's skin against her own was sweet and soft and comforting.

The voice in her head still warned Tara against involvement, against feeling anything for this tiny, fragile, hard-as-steel woman other than respect... but after Willow had jumped when the evil spirit possessed Nicole Kidman and Tara had touched her thumb in the only gesture of comfort she could manage, Tara had come to the conclusion that no matter how intelligent that voice might be, there was no way she could obey it. Now, as the credits rolled, neither woman seemed quite willing to move.

"I love that movie," Willow said after a moment. "My 9th grade math teacher knew Sandra Bullock when she was young; we watched Practical Magic on the last day of school. It was the first movie I ever saw that actually had _good_ realistic witches." Tara laughed.

"Realistic?" Willow shifted on the couch, drawing her legs up beneath her. The action pulled her hand away. Tara almost reached for it, but then folded her arms instead. The redhead smiled a little.

"Well. As realistic as Hollywood gets, anyway."

"S-so when did you start practicing?" Tara was interested, but more importantly, asking questions would lead to conversation, and conversation would distract her from how good Willow looked with her hair in her face like that.

"High school. When I was sixteen, I dedicated myself."

"Me too," Tara said, brushing her own hair behind her ear. "It was hard, though. I d-didn't know any other Wiccans."

"I didn't either," Willow replied, shaking her head. "My parents were Jewish, and they didn't think too well of it." She let out a short, soft laugh. "They had no idea what to do with me when I told them I was Wiccan, and even less of an idea when I told them I was gay." Tara's heart pounded. There it was.

Of course, she'd hoped. She'd even suspected. She'd been almost sure, actually, especially after that little exchange about Jodie Foster. But to hear it out loud-

"M-my family," she began, and then stopped. _Fucking dyke. _Breathed in, breathed out. "They didn't want a lesbian in the fold," Tara said finally. An understatement. There was a long pause, a sort of commiserating silence. Then, Willow reached out, very carefully. Tara's eyes slid over the redhead's hand, the scars, and then locked on Willow's own face. She didn't dare move. Slowly, in a silence that was suddenly far more tense than seconds before, Willow touched Tara's cheek.

"I'm sorry."

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Buffy had her cell phone out and against her ear as soon as she'd flung her duffel bag in the cab. She called out Willow's address to the driver, and then turned her attention to the ringing line.

"Hello?"

"Xander, Buffy. I just got in. I need the number of the agent in charge, here."

"Uh, right. Henderson's the name. Katie, Karen, something like that."

"Just give me the number," Buffy said, impatient. Then, she felt guilty for it, but Xander was already reeling off digits. "Thanks, Xand. I'll get back to you."

"Sure-" She'd already hung up.

"Hello, Special Agent Henderson? Detective Buffy Summers, here. I was-"

"The one who found Dr. Rosenberg the first time, right." Buffy's eyes narrowed, full-on cop mode.

"That implies there will be a second," she muttered. "All right. Willow Rosenberg is my friend, and as you know, I have a bit of a personal connection to this case, even if she wasn't. I'd like to help."

"I appreciate that, and understand it," Henderson said, "but we've got the situation under control. Cole Raimey isn't getting anywhere near Dr. Rosenberg; you have my word." Buffy didn't bother to keep trying; it had been worth the question, but there were more options than doing what the FBI said. After getting off the phone with Agent Henderson, she made one last call.

"Andrew? It's me. I need a favor. Cole Raimey worked for the Maclays, right? I need everything you've got on that family today, and I need it fast." As the cab neared Willow's Victorian monstrosity, Buffy heard the clicking of a keyboard across the line. Five minutes. Ten.

"Alright, got it. Maclay family, now headed by Donald Maclay, no recorded contact with Raimey in... almost four years. But, hired a man named Al Small for a while, and he matches the description of a guy who visited Raimey in prison a few weeks before his escape."

"Odds of them being behind this?"

"I'd say pretty high. Although actually, the timing seems a little off; according to... you know this is off the record, right?"

"Of course," Buffy said, making one of the few exceptions to her moral code. "Go on."

"Right. According to my buddy Warren, here, the Maclays are kind of busy with, uh, family troubles right now."

"Meaning?"

"Apparently Donald's sister ran off a month ago. I hear he's pretty... put out, shall we say?"

"A sister? I didn't know there was a sister."

"Sure," Andrew said, voice low. "Adelle Tara Maclay. Pretty blond. They kept her kind of hush-hush; something about an embarrassing-"

"Wait," Buffy interrupted, a cold tingle waking at the base of her spine. "What was that name?"

"Adelle." Her throat was very dry, but she swallowed, and asked again.

"The whole name, Andrew."

"Adelle Tara. Weird middle name; sounds-"

"Thanks," she broke in, and hung up. Waves of shock, disbelief and finally horror shook her to the core. "Shit," Buffy said at last.

8888888888888888

Willow meant to pull her hand back at once, just a brief touch. An offer of comfort, that was all.

But Tara caught her fingers at the last moment, the blue eyes far darker than they had been. Willow's heart raced, her breath caught in her throat. She was filled with a seething mixture of terror, exhilaration... and desire. _I am in control_, she thought desperately, _and I am strong. Goddess, I am strong._ But she couldn't move. Tara's hand was warm around hers, almost hot, and Willow realized that in that moment, the blond could grow fangs and attack her and she wouldn't even scream.

"I think-" Before she could get out any more, Tara leaned forward, tilted Willow's chin up with her free hand, and kissed her.

The world stopped spinning, but Willow kept going. Dizzy, she found her hands around the blond's neck, her universe shrinking to include nothing but the softness of Tara's hair and the warm, sweet pressure of her lips against Willow's. Willow heard a moan, realized it was Tara's, and let herself fall back against the arm of the couch, pulling Tara with her. The blond's weight against Willow's torso was sublime, and her hand was moving towards the neckline of Willow's shirt, and-

The front door slammed open, and a voice that was almost unrecognizable through the cold fury that twisted it shattered the moment.

"Get your goddamn hands off her," Buffy snarled. Tara jerked away, and Willow propped herself up to stare at her friend.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, still hazy from the kiss. Buffy had her gun out, and her eyes were like green fire. She didn't look away from Tara.

"Willow, get away from her," she said brusquely.

"What? Why?" The dizziness was swiftly being replaced by confusion, and more than a little anger. But Buffy's next words hit Willow like a sharpened stake in the gut.

"Because that's Donnie Maclay's baby sister, and her father sent Cole Raimey after you in the first place."


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

In less than a millisecond, Willow's heart went from breakneck speed to a dead stop. Then, the blood was pounding hard enough to echo in her ears, and she lurched backwards to the point of nearly falling over the couch arm. Awkwardly swinging her legs to the floor and pinioning herself around, Willow stumbled around the edge of the sofa until the thick plush arm was between her and Tara. The blond sat, ramrod straight, still as an oil painting.

Buffy made as if to move closer, but Willow flung an arm out, and she paused. A tiger barely leashed, Buffy kept her eyes the same place her friend did: on Tara Maclay.

"Tell me that's not true," Willow said, her voice calm. Frighteningly calm. The blond woman's eyes, those big, beautiful blue eyes, had gone guarded and unfamiliar. Tara's expression was strange, as if all her features had been erased and replaced with not-quite-right replicas.

She said nothing.

"Willow," Buffy said tightly, "I need you to go outside and get Officer March. Then call Henderson. I'll watch her." At that, Tara stood up so sharply that even Buffy flinched. There was something in the blond's normally soft face now that Willow had never seen before, and it scared her: cold determination...and fear.

"No," she said quietly, simply. Willow licked her lips, nerves racing through her. Buffy's brows lowered.

"Sit down and put your hands above your head, Miss Maclay." Tara ignored her, turning to face Willow. The terrifying look on her face shifted, changed, and now there was just the fear, and something else, as well: guilt.

"Please," the blond whispered. "D-d-don't do this. I c-can't be found." She spoke as if Buffy wasn't even in the room.

"You knew," Willow found herself saying. She had so many other things to say, like, "Get out of my house," and "Buffy, help." But she couldn't make her mouth form those words. Instead, she went on. "You knew all along that Raimey wanted me. You knew who let him out. You knew who he- you _are_ who he was working for," she finished in a shaking, horrified whisper. Tara stepped towards her, and Willow jerked backwards. Tara froze. Then, quickly, quietly, her stutter back in full force, she began to talk.

"I d-d-didn't know, I swear. I had n-nothing to do with him, n-never. He worked for m-my father; he g-g-gave me the scar on my neck. If they f-find out I'm here, they'll k-kill me, I know it. Willow, please, I n-never meant for it to happen like this. I never-"

"You never meant for it to happen before you kissed me, or after?" Willow asked, surprised by the venom in her own voice. Tara blinked, and suddenly Willow could have sworn there were tears in her eyes. Willow felt a hollow, angry ache deep in her belly, and she knew she needed to face this. Buffy cleared her throat.

"Hey, whoa, let's just stay on track here. Willow, please, would you just-"

"Buffy," Willow interrupted, "can you..." She took a deep breath. _I can't believe I'm doing this._ "Can you just go outside for a second?" Buffy stared at her. Tara's face was carefully blank.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Buffy, please, just go in the hallway for just a minute. Please, I'll be okay, I'll scream if she moves." Slowly, not lowering the gun or taking her eyes from the blond by the couch, Buffy backed out of the room. Hesitating in the doorway, she called,

"If she even _breathes_ wrong..." And she was gone.

Willow inhaled, shuddering. The fury, the twist of poisonous rage, was gone. Thankfully. Now, there was... nothing. She felt scooped out, emptied.

"How long were you going to wait, Tara? Before you told me? Or were you ever going to tell me?" Tara lifted a hand as if to reach out, and Willow's mouth tightened. "Don't." The hand fell back to her side.

"I was g-going-" Tara stopped. Looked down, then back up. "I don't know," she finished after a moment, her voice much softer. Almost helpless. "It w-was an accident. Working here. For you. I d-didn't know about your connection to Raimey until that c-cop came. And then..." She trailed off, but Willow stayed silent. Finally, Tara went on. "I thought I c-could... I thought if I stayed, I c-could face him d-d-down and..."

"And what? Kill him?" Willow said it harshly, a cruel joke, but Tara didn't drop her eyes. Willow shook her head, yet another wave of shock rippling across her ribs. "Oh, my Goddess."

"I wanted him dead," Tara said, her stutter fading in the wake of the cold hate that infused those words. Her eyes went momentarily distant, and then snapped back to focus. Willow crossed her arms protectively.

"So you were using me as bait," she said at last, slicing to her final conclusion. "You were going to wait until Raimey came after me, and then you were going to..." She didn't say it. "And everything else? That was... how could you have..."

"I t-told you," Tara broke in, and now she did step forward. "I didn't w-want it to happen like that."

"So you didn't want to kiss me?" Willow couldn't stop herself.

"No, I- I'm sorry," Tara said, taking another step. "I wanted to tell you." Willow didn't speak, and when Tara took another step and stopped less than a foot away from her, she didn't move. But when Tara reached to touch Willow's hand, the redhead lifted her chin and, very deliberately, took one step backwards.

"I think you're telling the truth," she began, "about not working for... for your family. Which, I take it, isn't as dead as you said it was." Before Tara could do more than open her mouth, Willow went on. "But you lied to me. You used me." The pain was in her voice now, and she couldn't stop it, and she felt her breathing speed up, and oh goddess not _now_. Willow closed her eyes, taking a deep, cleansing breath. Her heart rate slowed. She opened her eyes and kept talking. The old Willow, the one that had just recently re-awoken, was gaining control, and her brain was working fast. "But you're a wild card, and Raimey won't know you're here. He won't expect that." Tara was frowning, but Willow ignored it. "So you're going to stay, and Buffy and I are going to keep a very close watch on you, and when he- when he gets here, we'll see who uses whom."

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"You c-can't be serious," Tara said quietly. She dashed a tear away from one eye, and forced the transformation: all woman, to all business. "Your friend will n-never let me stay."

"She'll do it," Willow replied, swallowing. "She'll do it. Buffy," she called, and instantly the blond cop was in the room.

"You done?"

"Buffy, Tara's going to stay here," Willow said, and her voice was back to the cool, collected Stepford sound that she'd had when Tara'd first met her. "She's going to be our last ace."

"Will," Buffy said, the sympathy in her voice hard to hear, "you can't trust her." And then, Tara realized that her grudging self-admission of affection after the movie had been far, far understated as Willow looked from Buffy to Tara herself.

"I know," Willow said, and there was nothing but honest, crushed acceptance in her voice.

And that just about broke Tara's heart.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Tara felt like crying.

Her eyes, though, as she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling of the guest room she'd been using for the past few days, were dry.

She could hear the muted sounds of Buffy and Willow down the hall, talking quietly. Their voices were too low for her to make out words, but she knew what they were discussing. Or, rather, who.

Buffy, Tara took it, had spoken to the agent in charge of guarding Willow Rosenberg and gotten permission to stay in the house as a sort of final layer of protection, on the grounds that she was there for Willow's comfort as much as for her safety. She would sleep on the sofa that Tara herself had unearthed downstairs, while Willow would stay in the master bedroom and Tara, save for when she had to use the restroom or needed food, was expected to stay in her guest room. At night, Buffy had stated flatly, the door to Tara's room would be locked. An old house, the guest rooms in Willow's near-mansion were small enough that they might once have been considered servant's quarters. They locked from the outside.

Now, Tara lay with her arms outstretched, fingers reaching as far to the east and the west of her as they could. Her toes pointed, angling up, her legs straight out from her spine. She imagined the crucifixes her grandfather had worn, the expensive silver cross weighted with the tormented body of Christ. He'd put one around her neck once, when she was very young, and it had been heavy enough for the chain to leave a red mark on her neck. This memory made her smile bitterly, and the back of her neck tingled where the white scar traced that same place. The scar, also old, was from her sixteenth birthday. The day Cole Raimey, her father's hit man, touched her, and when she fought back, nearly garroted her with the wire he kept in his left sleeve. No one ever knew what had happened that day; injuries were taken for granted in that family, especially hers.

Scarred, Tara closed her eyes and brought her mind back to the day her grandfather had put the silver crucifix around her neck. She saw the cross. Saw the body. Remembered her childish horror, her utter confusion as to why anyone would look at such an awful thing with joy and praise. She hadn't understood the symbolism behind the image, but even when she did, she'd never been able to look at a crucifix since without seeing her father's father's cold, old eyes.

Now, in the position of the crucified, Tara wondered what she would sacrifice when all this was over.

She'd run from the family that hated her, but the darkness had followed in her memories. She'd tried to hide in the normal world, but had stepped into the very first place her past would look for her. She'd made every attempt to close herself off, to focus on her freedom at whatever cost, but her stubborn, reckless heart had locked onto the one person this entire charade couldn't help but betray. And now she was trapped here, trapped in every possible way, and waiting for a killer who wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in her head right before starting on the woman she-

Loved?

Tara wasn't sure.

She was unused to the feeling.

But what she _was_ sure of was this: even- no, _especially_- after hearing the wounded distrust in the redhead's voice, Tara would step in front of Raimey's gun herself before she let the bastard touch Willow.

And, buried within that certainty was another thought: one that, until Willow had said it aloud, had lived in Tara's subconscious and waited. _An' it harm none, do as ye will._ Rede aside, Tara knew now, if Raimey gave her even the slightest chance... she would kill him.

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"Eggs. Bread. Cheese. Lemons. Carrots. Anchov- _ew_," Xander broke off, mid-word. He looked at the crumpled grocery list in his hand, mouth curling down. "Anya, you don't like anchovies. I don't like anchovies. Why are we buying anchovies?"

"Because I read somewhere that they improve certain activities that I'm not supposed to talk about in public-"

"Ok," Xander interrupted, steering his wife away from an elderly couple who were watching the young woman with more than a little interest. Anya, never one to be led, twisted her arm away and flipped her hair over one shoulder. This didn't really do much, since she'd gotten it cut into a low bob a week before, a fact that she kept forgetting. Still, it flung a few currently-brown strands into Xander's mouth, and he quirked his lips at her. "Whatever, An. Just, don't forget, we also have to get tea."

"Tea? Well, fine, as long as it's caffeinated," she said. "I don't do decaffeinated."

"I know," he assured her, grabbing a box of noodles as they passed and tossing it into the basket at his waist.

"So how's Willow?" Anya's voice, despite the complete non sequitur, had gone as soft as it was possible for it to go. Her frank brown eyes, meeting Xander's over a display of early pumpkins, spared nothing. "The tea made me think of it," she added after a second.

"She's okay for now," Xander said slowly. "It's... complicated. But Buffy's there, as of this afternoon."

"And the cops are watching the house?"

"Yeah."

"Well," she said, turning to pick up a can of spaghetti sauce, "that's good. You might want to call them for ours, as well, if that man keeps following us." Xander took the can before her words sunk in. He almost dropped the sauce, but Anya's quick fingers snagged it just in time. She set the sauce in the basket, and cocked her head at him. Xander's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper as he bent to her.

"We're being followed?!" Anya lowered her voice as well, for once taking the cue.

"Of course we are. You didn't notice?"

"No," Xander hissed. "Not all of us are former thieves with ninja reflexes and x-ray vision." She patted his hand.

"I know, dear. It's not your fault."

"Who is it? What does he look like? Where?"

"He's not in here anymore," Anya said easily, "so we don't actually need to whisper like this. He followed us from the hardware store; very nicely done, too. I actually wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't been looking at those gorgeous flowerpots. I could see him through the hole in the bottom when I picked one up; you know, where the water drains out. He was across the aisle. My spidey sense went wacky, and sure enough, he stayed parallel the whole time and then followed us here, too. He left a few minutes ago."

Xander blinked at her, and took a deep breath.

"Ok. What did he look like?"

"Middle aged, but fit. Dark eyes. Creepy."

"We need to call the cops," he told her, handing her the basket to rummage for his cell phone. Anya sighed.

"Didn't I just say that five minutes ago?"

He was already talking to Henderson.

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Raimey pulled over off a side road he'd found, popping the trunk of his stolen car. He switched the plates quickly, quietly and efficiently, breathing through his nose. Raimey was in the habit of making as little noise as possible. Still, he was almost positive he hadn't been quite stealthy enough; something about the way the woman with Alexander Harris had looked at him made him uneasy. She'd only glanced at him once, and very briefly, but though her eyes hadn't lingered on him after lowering the flowerpot, Raimey had gotten a very distinct warning bell in his shark's mind. He didn't know who she was; that would have to be determined. Harris's girlfriend? His wife? Probably the latter, Raimey decided; Harris wore a ring, and they bickered like old marrieds.

Still, 'Harris's wife' was not enough. If there was even the slightest chance she knew him, she'd need to be taken out. Raimey frowned. This was getting unduly complicated. The cop was there, the one from before. The one who'd shot him. He'd seen her arrive, seen her talk with the officer on duty, seen her angry and gesticulating and finally admitted into the house. And now Harris, who might have been an in, had a wife who was either far smarter than her husband, or who just set Raimey's teeth on edge for some other, unknown reason. Since Raimey detested the unexplained and the random, he locked the pretty brunette's face into his mind and made a mental note to find out exactly who she was... and, possibly more importantly, who she'd been.

Complicated, complicated. The web was growing. Still, Raimey thought as he got back into the nondescript Suburu, nothing too bad had happened yet. The plan was still a go.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Willow had hoped that she could successfully avoid Tara the next morning, especially considering that the blond was supposed to remain locked in the upstairs guest bedroom. However, after sleeping a restless and unsettling few hours, she'd made her way with heavy footsteps and heavier eyelids to the bathroom, pulling open the door only to reveal Tara Maclay herself.

For a second, come and gone too quickly for Willow to really register the thought, she allowed as how Tara was maybe just a little bit stunning.

Then, the tangled, water-darkened slick of hair and the pale soft skin that made the white towel she had wrapped around her torso seem almost obscene faded in the face of those eyes, those starry blue eyes that held secrets Willow could just begin to uncover.

They stood there, facing each other, and Willow broke first.

"Buffy…" She didn't want to say 'let you out', because that made it sound like they were keeping Tara in some kind of prison, but… Well, they _were_, weren't they? Tara nodded, though, saving her from having to complete the sentence.

"I'm allowed to go d-downstairs and get something to eat, too." Her tone was so even that, had Willow not known what to look for in terms of facial tells, she wouldn't have been able to figure out whether it was sarcasm or not. It was. Willow felt her cheeks heat, but the blush was a refreshing mix of embarrassment and anger.

"And you can thank me for that," she said coolly. "Buffy wanted us to bring you food in your room, to make sure you wouldn't, oh, slip some poison in the milk." Tara's chin lifted, something glittering in her gaze.

"B-but you don't believe I would d-d-do that." Willow made herself shrug.

"It would be stupid of you to kill me before Raimey gets here." She stepped forward, preparing to push past Tara, but the other woman grabbed her by the shoulders. The movement made Tara's towel slip, and Willow's eyes went involuntarily to the few inches more of breast that now showed above the terrycloth. She swallowed. Tara let her go, slowly moving one hand to the towel and, instead of jerking it back up to her collarbone, gripping the place where one corner tucked into the wrap. With the other hand, softer than soft, she touched Willow's cheek. Willow's green eyes jolted, haltingly, up.

"I won't hurt you, Willow," Tara said quietly, her expression melting into something almost vulnerable. Tilting her head back, away from Tara's fingers, Willow shook her head once.

"You already did."

Then she did slide past Tara into the bathroom, closing the door behind her before pressing her back to the wood and shutting her eyes.

The shower felt unbelievably good, her toes curling into the floor of the stall, skin rippling under the hot water. Willow, eyes closed again, lifted her head and let the water stream across her face, raising her hands to cup both cheeks, feeling two distinct sensations: the rough pattern of scars against her skin, and the gentle ghostly memory of Tara's fingers on her cheek.

When the door opened, it was quiet enough that Willow didn't hear it over the shower. When the shower curtain rattled back, she did hear, whipping around fast enough to nearly slip and fall. When Tara, dressed now in a white undershirt and jeans, reached into the shower and grabbed Willow by the neck to pull her out of the stream and close enough for the blond to steal the most unexpected kiss of Willow's life, she went momentarily deaf. And dumb.

Tara's hands stayed on Willow's neck, the fingers of one sliding up to grip the slick matted cap of the redhead's hair. She kissed her in a different way than she'd kissed her on the couch. She kissed her like there was a message there, something terribly important that, if wasn't expressed right here, right now, would leave them both broken. As it was, Willow found that she could not think of a single thing except Tara's mouth on hers, and then the blond pulled away, turned and left without a word.

Willow blinked, then pulled the shower curtain back and leaned against the wall. She touched her lips. She touched her chest, feeling her heart pounding.

"Well," she said aloud. "At least I didn't kiss her back, right?"

Her inner self, which was always there with a biting comment or a reminder of her own fragility, was miraculously (or pointedly) silent.

888888888

Buffy was watching her. It was unsettling, and Tara Maclay was not easily unsettled. Although, to be fair, her nerves were a little shot to hell at the moment. She hadn't really meant to invade Willow's privacy like that, hadn't really meant to grab her out of the shower, of all places, hadn't really meant to kiss her… But she'd done it anyway, out of spite or hurt or desperation or something she couldn't quite define. In her defense, it had all happened fast enough that she hadn't really seen anything… much. And now, downstairs, pouring cereal into a bowl with Willow's gorgeous blond friend sitting at the kitchen table keeping track of her every move, Tara was feeling a tad off kilter.

That morning, when Buffy had unlocked the door to Tara's bedroom and handed her a towel, she'd warned Tara to shower fast because Willow wasn't up yet, but she'd want the bathroom when she was. Tara had taken the towel and glanced towards the redhead's room, frowning. "So she d-did sleep?" As soon as the words were out, she'd recognized the worry in her voice, the unwelcome way her stutter made her concern all the more obvious. Tara had smoothed out her features as quickly as she could. Buffy, eyes narrowing, had just nodded.

Buffy hadn't said anything when Tara came in, but she hadn't needed to. That look was enough. Not many people could make her actually nervous, but apparently Buffy Summers of Los Angeles, California had a gift. Sitting there with her cup of coffee and her flannel pajama pants, her honeyed ponytail making her look about twenty years old, she was perhaps the most understatedly blatant threat Tara had seen in a long time.

"So are you j-just going t-t-to keep me in that room all day?" Tara didn't look at Buffy as she asked, carefully replacing the cap on the milk, Willow's jibe about poison ringing in her ears.

"I'm not sure yet," Buffy said calmly, which surprised Tara a little. Taking her bowl to the table, Tara sat down at the opposite end. The cop in civilian clothing watched her like wolf in the garb of a sheep. "I thought at first that you were nothing but a spy for Raimey's people, someone Willow can't trust for a heartbeat."

"And now?"

"And now I still think you're someone Willow can't trust for a heartbeat. Or you were." There was something in her voice, something studied and oddly knowing, which might have been genuine or might have been just a clever cop trick to get people to talk. Tara couldn't tell, and that annoyed her. "Willow tells me you've been pretty damn well-behaved through all of this." Tara ate a spoonful of cereal. Willow had said that? The something-knowing in Buffy's voice got a little more solid, and Tara had the idea that Buffy knew exactly how she felt about the redhead. _Well, T, that could be a good thing or a bad thing. Or, of course, it could also be complete bullshit, and Buffy was just bluffing. _Tara ate another spoonful. "That is, up until you guys got it on over there," Buffy added, jerking her head towards the hallway that led to the room where they'd kissed on the sofa.

Tara looked up fast, meeting Buffy's unreadable hazel eyes. In that moment, Tara realized something very important about Willow's unassuming, dangerous friend.

"You know I won't hurt her," Tara said, not stuttering at all. "You know I was never going to hurt her."

"I don't know that," Buffy corrected, stretching out her legs like a big, lazy cat. The kind with the big, lazy teeth. "But I know you're not what you seem, Miss Maclay, from any angle. You're not the hard-hearted mob princess that you should be, and you're not the innocent little runaway that you pretend to be. I don't know exactly _what_ you are. But I do know that you care about my best friend up there, more than you want to show. And I also know that you might turn out to be more deadly than Cole Raimey… and you won't even have to try."

Tara held Buffy's gaze, feeling her heartbeat speed up. The cereal sat forgotten before her.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're going to hurt her, Tara Maclay, one way or another. Either you do what I thought you'd do from the beginning, and you betray her, or you do something stupid trying to protect her and get yourself killed. Either way, Willow loses. But she won't let me get rid of you, so I'm stuck watching and waiting until I know which way it's going to go down. So the way I see it is, I'll keep you locked up until I think you're going to stay away from Willow. She's already in deeper than I'd like, deeper than what's safe, and I'm not going to let you two turn into a 21st century Romeo and Juliet."

Tara opened her mouth. Then she closed it again, and had the strange urge to shake the cop's hand. It felt like some kind of accord had been reached, some judgment made and acknowledged. Acknowledged, but not accepted.

And that was when Willow, smelling of mint and oranges, stepped into the room.

Buffy and Tara, without a word or a glance at each other, resumed drinking coffee or eating cereal, the tenseness in the air dissipating almost instantly. Willow murmured a good morning to Buffy, and whether she could tell that something had happened between the two blondes or not, she didn't let on. Nor did she even look at Tara, walking around the table to pour herself a cup of tea.

"Any news?" she asked Buffy, holding her mug of chai in front of her face, her gloved hands tight on the ceramic.

"Maybe," Buffy replied. "I got a call earlier." Tara looked at her sharply, but Buffy's eyes were on her friend's.

"From?"

"Xander."

Willow sat down.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Karen Henderson stood at the head of the table in Willow's kitchen, flanked by Buffy and Xander. Tara and Willow sat at the table, and Tara could tell that Willow was just as uncomfortable as she was… though for a different reason. Tara herself felt queasy, hot, uncertain, out of control. She assumed that Buffy hadn't told Henderson about her, which really only made things worse: now it was as if she and Buffy were lying to Willow, keeping secrets, even if technically Tara hadn't said a word about anything Willow didn't already know. _And it's not like you weren't lying to her before, T_, her subconscious muttered irritably. But this is different, Tara muttered back. _This isn't about me and my past, it's about me and __Willow. __It's different._

Across the table from her, Willow sat with her arms folded, elbows resting on the wooden tabletop. Her gloves, dark gray cotton today, were looser than the fitted ones she usually wore; she kept worrying at one of the fingers, tugging it tight and then letting it smooth out. She still hadn't looked at Tara since the kiss in the shower, not once. Stupid, Tara thought, looking at her own clean fingers. _What was I thinking? What the hell was I thinking?_

Everything was falling apart.

"I want to get you out of here," Henderson announced. Buffy, arms folded, nodded. "This is the proof we needed to get you to a safe space; I'm even considering the Witness Protection Program. Miss Maclay," she went on, directing that cool, even gaze her way, "I'm sure Dr. Rosenberg is grateful for your company over the past few days, but it's too dangerous for you to be here any longer. I'm going to need you to get your things and leave the area as soon as possible." Willow looked up, her deadened eyes brightening somewhat.

"Wait. We decided-"

"Willow," Henderson interrupted, bracing herself against the table and leaning down, "I'm sorry, but you've got to do as I say here." Tara looked to Buffy, searching for a nod, a headshake, a wink, anything… but the blond cop stood stock still, face blank. Tara swallowed. What was she supposed to do? If Henderson didn't know about her connection to Cole Raimey, then all the better. But if she tried to say something, to protest being kicked out of Willow's house, then it would bring the FBI down on her back at once, and apparently Buffy Summers wasn't going to help her. Hell, Buffy probably was thanking god for this; she _wanted_ Tara gone.

Maybe, though, leaving was the right thing to do. The safest thing, no doubt. Sure, there would be no vengeance against Raimey, no final confrontation, no closure from her old life. They would always hunt her, of course, if she didn't make the kind of cold, deadly statement that killing Raimey would be, but would murder really be a fair trade for freedom in the first place? She'd hurt that one man when she ran, and that had been bad enough; could she really kill to win a better life? Now that it seemed she had no choice but to run again, Tara found the doubts almost overpowering.

And Willow? Pretty, broken Willow? Tara understood that she'd been right all along, that Buffy was right, too, even though she hadn't wanted to believe it: she was bad for Willow, dangerous, dangerous because she was careless and stupid and--

Tara looked across the table. Willow looked back, meeting her eyes for the first time all morning.

Blue and green, green and blue.

"All right," Tara said, her chest tightening, ribs sucking in around her heart. "I'll g-go."

_Janelle is gone. She has to be gone; Tara can't imagine that Donnie would have left her alone. Not after seeing them, seeing the way Janelle looked with his sister's fingers under her shirt. Tara is in her room, the air still ringing with Janelle's startled shriek and Donnie's furious roar, the floor rolling and spinning beneath her feet. This is not her first time doing what Donnie calls__ messin' around, __but it's the first girl here, the first girl the family__ knows. __Tara doesn't think Donnie's killed her, doesn't think Eddie will have papers for some other girl to cover up the death of this one, but judging by the way Donnie dragged the maid out of the room, using one hand on her wrist and one hand coiled viciously in her dark hair, she's pretty sure that Janelle is not coming back._

Tears slipslide down her cheeks, and she can't quite tell whether they feel hot or cold. Her face feels blank, expressionless. Her hands in her lap. Her feet on the floor. The bed, soft, springy.

After Donnie finishes with Janelle, or makes someone else do it, he'll be coming back up here. He won't delegate that; the days of following in Eddie's footsteps or those of his father are over, now that the Old Man is dead and Donnie's in charge. Tara doesn't understand, really, why he takes_ her __so personally. Why, after two decades, he won't let another man touch her but he'll beat her 'til she bleeds for her wicked, unforgivable sin. She supposes she should be grateful that the days when Donnie and the other boys stalked her around the house, calling threats and smacking belts against their fists, are gone. They never did rape her, of course. Not in so many words._

Tara feels her lips twitch at that, closing her eyes against the tears, hating them, hating Donnie for making her weak, hating Janelle, even, for her terrified begging face as Donnie led her away.__

He'll be back soon, _quiet Inner Tara says.__ You should get ready. He'll be angrier if he finds you like this. __She straightens her shirt and, standing, goes to the small vanity table in the corner. Her face is very pale in the mirror, her eyes reddened with crying. Her hair, long enough to reach the small of her back, is everywhere. Her mother had long hair, is why she keeps it like this. Before the bad things happened. Tara takes the wooden brush from the vanity, numbly stroking it down from the crown of her head to her waist. When she has the hair smoothed into the sleek, thick curtain that her father (and even Donnie, when he is in the mood) always used to praise. She swallows, looking at herself, wiping the tears away._

There are scissors on the vanity, the small kind you use on fingernails, and for a moment Tara is compelled almost beyond resistance to pick them up and snip away her hair until there is nothing left. She doesn't, of course. She's not that stupid, though kissing a girl in Donnie's own house would seem to argue otherwise.

Tara picks up the scissors, though, a tiny silver thing with delicate loops for the fingers and small, curved blades. She wishes they were bigger, so she could stick them in Donnie's sneering, falsely affectionate face.

This kind of thinking is dangerous, and Tara shies away from it almost at once. Twenty-seven years of living as a Maclay have taught her this much, at least. Maybe it's the scissors, or Janelle, or maybe it's the fact that it won't be long before she's twenty-eight… but Tara finds herself drawn back to the idea, an idea that, though much-considered, she's never been brave enough to try.

"You could leave," she says aloud, to herself. In the mirror, a blond woman with a colorless face and a pair of tiny ladies' fingernail scissors stares back. "G-get the… get the_ fuck __out of here," the woman suggests._

And it occurs to her that there aren't many people here at this time of day, mid-afternoon. They're all out._ Working. __But no, no, she can't go, they'd catch her in a day. And besides… this is all she knows. Eyes dropping, Tara puts down the scissors and gathers up her hair to braid it, anything to make the time before her brother comes for her go by less agonizingly. She scoops her hands up, under, sliding them towards her neck--_

And there's the scar, abrasive and ropey, from the family's pet serial killer.

Raimey's in prison now, but she's sure that won't take.

And there's something, some tiny little catch, some indefinable combustion of events leading up to this one unspeakable switch, and Tara's up, the scissors back in hand, gripped so tightly that she can feel the metal boring into the flesh of her palm. The blades aren't more than an inch long, but if she's fast enough and strikes in the right place (the neck, the side of the neck) or even in some meaty part like an arm or the stomach, she'll draw enough pain and surprise to give her time to run.

"All right," she says to her reflection as she moves silently for the door. "I'll g-go."

The flashback, there and gone in an instant, sent a shivery jolt of nausea through Tara's gut. The same thing, the same exact words, with completely different expectations and hopes and intentions… And now, now she was left sitting across from Willow Rosenberg feeling like she'd just broken a child's nose.

Willow didn't protest, once Tara agreed to leave. Tara thought she might. Tara thought she might find her when she was gathering the few clothes she'd had with her, or when she was talking to Agent Henderson about what she was liable for and where she ought to go if something should happen related to the case, or when she paused at the front door and gripped the knob hard enough to hurt.

Willow didn't. She was back in the kitchen when Tara left, Buffy and Xander crowding around her like mother hens-- or bodyguards. Tara didn't see her covering her face with her ruined hands, didn't see her drawing in long, unsteady breaths, didn't see the tears on her own cheeks.

It wasn't until Tara was out of the house, in a cab and heading for the small town airport that she let herself cry.

The crying didn't last, though. Especially since, several minutes after getting out of the taxi and entering the airport to wander towards the bathrooms, something very thin and very sharp stung her on the neck from behind. As her stomach rose and her vision whirled into a sick blanket of dark spots, her legs giving out and her torso sagging back into someone's arms, Tara vaguely heard a man's voice saying, "It's all right, just my wife, she's got a bad virus, I'll get her home."


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

There was no pain, no throbbing headache to force her awake. There was only a gummy tiredness around the eyes, and the dry, fuzzed discomfort of the mouth; Tara's tongue felt thick enough to have absorbed and destroyed not only all the moisture in her mouth, but all that in the air and possibly the nearest ocean as well. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking away the grit, the lashes of her left eye sticking together for a moment before separating with a suddenness that made her lids pop apart.

She was in a small, cheap-looking room, similar to the motel room in which she'd stayed those first few days of freedom. The walls were papered with a peeling faux-cloth print in striped shades of green, and the bed she lay on felt only a little softer than a wooden bench. There was one window, but someone had taped a flat rectangle of cardboard over the panes, leaving the room lit only by the dim ceiling light.

All that, however, came second to the realization that she was bound. Thick strips of duct tape wound around her wrists, and then around her waist, making it impossible for her to lift her arms from her stomach. Her ankles, too, were strapped together, connected to another band of silvery tape around her knees tightly enough that, as she tried to sit up, Tara found she could barely kick her legs at all.

"You look different," Cole Raimey said. Tara jerked, twisting her head around to look behind her and to the left. Raimey was standing against the back wall, hands in pockets. She'd known from the instant she awoke who had her, but even so, Tara couldn't bring herself to say a word. She just stared.

Raimey smiled, his nondescript features pulling up. When he straightened away from the wall and walked over to stand beside the bed, she saw that he limped slightly.

"Cut your hair." Still, she said nothing, though now it was because she refused to give him the stutter. She knew it would amuse him. Raimey didn't look too put out by her silence. "You know I'm going to kill you." It wasn't a question. "Your brother is not happy with you, Tara." He put a certain sneering emphasis on the words 'your brother', and Tara swallowed. "In fact, he was so eager to have you punished, he went ahead and gave me a little bonus to make sure I got the job done."

Tara glared at him, her hard mask sliding into place. It was only Donnie, really, that she couldn't maintain the coldness with. Only her brother.

"Now, I thought it was going to be a little harder to find you, and I was… impatient. I'm sure you can relate. So I decided to go straight for my extra surprise. Who would have thought I'd see you, walking out of her house?" A chill slipped, cruelly, to the base of Tara's spine. She felt the duct tape, sticky with her own sweat. Raimey shook his head. "You really ought to learn from your mistakes, Tara, and stay _a__way_ from the _girls_."

"Shut up," she managed hoarsely, shaking a loose length of hair out of her face. Raimey leaned in, reaching a hand out to touch her cheek. She recoiled as far as she could, but he just reached with her, keeping his fingers against her skin. He stroked her chin.

"I touched you once, do you remember? What was that… ten years ago? Eleven? You weren't very nice that time. Then again, neither was I."

"Just k-kill me, then," she said, barely above a croak. Her heart was beating fast enough to hurt, but the bravado made her feel just a little bit better.

"Well, I'm curious," Raimey said, removing his hand from her face. He put it back in his pocket, calm and removed as ever. "What were you doing with our lovely Doctor R.? After all, she's a little damaged for you, don't you think? Or do you like them broken?"

"She's n-n-not broken," Tara spat, rolling herself into as much of a sitting position as she could manage. Raimey looked interested, polite, even. The fear that she was hiding from roiled, muttering inside her, waiting for the dam to break. She walled it in with anger, sick fury, and snarled at him. "She's g-got people watching for her, you p-piece of scum, and they'll take you down." Raimey lifted his chin in a sort of nod, breathing in.

"Ahhh, take me down the way you took down Sam Lyman?"

"P-permanently, Raimey. For you it'll be permanent." Raimey smiled, looking mildly delighted.

"Oh, dear. Tara, Tara… You didn't stick around long enough to see your own handiwork, but I thought you'd figure it out…" Tara shook her head, the anger taking a solid hit of confusion. She blinked.

"What?" Raimey leaned in close again, but this time he didn't even try to touch her. He seemed to be getting enough of a high from the expression on her face.

"You killed him, Tara. Right to the jugular, I hear, with a pair of scissors." He shook his head ruefully. "You didn't think he _survived_, did you?"

Tara, stunned, wanted to back away, to hit something, to run.

"No," she whispered, trapped by the duct tape and by her own mind. She saw herself slashing, saw the man Lyman stumbling back, saw herself seeing the window of her escape closing, and then running, running, gone. "No, I…"

"Oh, yes," Raimey corrected. "I really thought you knew, but this is even better. You're a murderer, Tara: you're just like me."

88888888888

"Has she called yet?"

"No," Xander admitted. "But I'm sure it's just traffic, Will."

"She promised to call me at the airport," Buffy reminded Willow. "One of the conditions for my letting her leave."

"'Letting her leave'?" Willow shook her head. "You practically threw her out the door."

"Willow, she was dangerous," Buffy argued, rubbing at her temple. They were at the kitchen table, Henderson and her agents in the living room discussing what to do with their charge, who was proving more obstinate now than ever before. Willow refused to leave. "And you have to get out of here; Raimey could try to get at you at any time!"

"I'm not going," Willow said again, her stubborn elfin face set. "He's going to keep after me until either he kills me or we kill him, and now that you got rid of our one actual connection to him, the only leverage we have is that we know where he's going to strike. This is my house, my territory. We have the advantage." Buffy made a small sound, a half-laugh of disbelief.

"Listen to you. Are you the shrink or the cop here?" Then she grew serious, and reached out to take Willow's gloved hand. The redhead, Buffy noticed with surprise, didn't flinch. "Really, though, Wills… you're different. You're not… you're not taking this at all like I thought you would." Xander nodded, smiling a little.

"I mean, it's good to see you all up-at-arms," he added, "just kind of weird. Did something-- Y'know, did something happen? That we don't know about?" At that, Buffy's eyes narrowed.

"Willow, did something else happen with that girl?"

Willow pulled her hand away from her friend, looking from Xander to Buffy and back again.

"Goddess, will you two stop it? What, can't you accept the fact that sometimes people don't stay completely messed up forever?" Immediately, she regretted the harshness of her tone, and rubbed a hand across her own face. "Sorry. Sorry. I just… I think I'm getting better, okay? I think I'm finally getting better, and running away from Raimey isn't going to help that. In fact, everything I was taught in all those expensive college psychology courses tells me that it would make things worse."

"And Tara?" Buffy asked gently, studying Willow from across the table.

"I know she's dangerous," Willow said tiredly. "I know I can't trust her, and I don't. I know she was probably planning on using me for some… I don't even know, some mob plot or whatever. I know that. Just… I want to make sure she's safe. Okay? I want to know she's gone, and that she made it all right." Xander glanced to Buffy, and then nodded sharply.

"Then that's what we'll do. Look, if she doesn't call us in half an hour, I'll go to the airport myself and see what's up."

"Meanwhile," Buffy said, "we're going to have to figure out how to make FBI-san over there a little bit happier, because right now, she's about ready to drug you herself just so you'll let her get you someplace safe."

"Well," Willow began, but broke off at the low, humming buzz of her cell phone. "Shit. It's probably my editor, wondering what the hell I've been doing for the past week other than finishing his book…" She pulled the phone out of her pocket, scooting back from the table and rising to answer the phone. "Rosenberg."

"Hello, Doc."

Willow froze, then swung around to face Buffy and Xander. She jerked her head towards the hallway that led upstairs, away from Henderson and the rest of her agents. The other two rose, frowning, and followed her out of the room. Willow waited until they were safely out-of-hearing before turning, wrapping her free arm around her abdomen, and speaking into the phone.

"Raimey." At that, Buffy stiffened, glancing back towards where the FBI were situated. Willow shook her head, mouthing the word 'wait'. "What do you want?"

"We have unfinished business between us, Doc."

"I think you have more unfinished business between yourself and my friend with the handgun than you do with me," Willow replied, and though her hand was shaking, her voice was not.

"Maybe so. But I think you'll come around soon enough. Just as soon as I inform you of my little prize, over here." Xander, leaning in close to hear what was being said, furrowed his brow, but said nothing.

"Keep talking," Willow told Raimey. "You're being traced."

"No, I'm not," he countered simply. "Though I will tell you where I am. After all, I want nothing more than for us to meet up."

"Then tell me, Cole." He laughed.

"Are you trying to connect with me? Willow? Are you trying to break through, still? I thought the flames would have convinced you that wasn't going to happen."

"I'll hang up," Willow threatened, and Buffy put an arm around her shoulders, shaking her head, wanting to hear.

"Fine. Hang up. I suppose your girlfriend isn't as much a priority as I suspected." Now, Willow's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Buffy let her go, hand going instinctively to her holster.

"Fuck," the blond cop whispered.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Willow said, as calmly as she could.

"Oh, let's don't lie," Raimey said, cajoling. "We're past that, you and me." The emotion in his voice sounded fake, false, a bad actor trying to perform distracted. "Besides, you should be proud of yourself. She certainly is a beautiful woman. You have good taste. Not too bright, though: if she were smart, Tara would have left you before you even met. Then again, I suppose she couldn't have known that we two were… involved."

"We're not," Willow clipped out. "Where is she?"

"With me, of course. We have a history, as well, you know. Maybe an even more telling one than yours and mine, come to think of it. I do seem to have rubbed off on her."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? That's your job, isn't it? Find things out. Figure me out."

"What have you done with her?"

"Nothing. Yet. She's just a prop, so you'd better play your part, Doctor Rosenberg. Come to the Motel 7 off High and Morgan. Room 14. And Willow?" She didn't fill his pause. He didn't intend her to. "Come alone. You can imagine, I'm sure, what I'll do to her if you don't."


	20. Chapter 20

"There is no way in hell you're doing it," Buffy said flatly as soon as Willow had snapped her phone closed. "We're going to go talk to Agent Henderson, right now, and then you're getting out of here." Willow shoved her cell phone back into the pocket of her slacks.

"If I don't show, he'll kill her." She was very pale, her gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Xander reached for her shoulder, but she held herself apart and frowned at him.

"Wills," he said, "this is insane. Got that? It's _insane_ for you to go to that motel. Hell, it's more than nuts, it's suicidal!" Willow shook her head vehemently, her red hair slapping against her cheeks. She started to talk, then stopped and went on in a low, harsh whisper.

"If anyone is crazy here, it's Cole Raimey. He'll do what he said he'd do; he'll hurt her, and then he'll kill her. If we tell Henderson, she'll send her agents up there and he'll see them coming from a mile away. We might as well just go ahead and sign Tara's death warrant ourselves!"

"We don't have a _choice_," Buffy hissed. "Besides, Tara isn't my top priority, you are. We don't even know if-"

"If what?" Willow interrupted sharply. "If she was going to try to kill me? If she was going to give me to Raimey, or just use me as bait? Are you honestly saying that matters right now? Shit, Buff, see a shade of gray or two! Not everything is as black and white as you love to make it!"

"I'm sorry if my deciding that you're worth a little bit more than some two-faced-"

"Hey," Xander said, "Buffy? Shut up. Willow? You too." Both women stopped, glaring. He held up his hands, but didn't back down. "What are we gonna do here?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Stand around fighting or figure out how to help your friend? Because I, for one, think you're both kind of right. If Raimey sees Henderson's agents, which he will, then Tara's screwed. But," he continued, looking at Willow, "if you go alone,_you're_ screwed. So let's find a happy medium, ok?" Buffy sighed.

"Fine. I don't like this, but fine. I'm going," she said to the redhead.

"But if he sees you-"

"He won't. And I'm going. That's not debatable." Willow shook her head.

"Ok," she said, biting her lower lip. "So you'll be my backup. I'll go in alone, and you'll… stay hidden outside, I guess, and wait for my signal."

"Which will be?" Xander asked, shrugging out of his jacket and tying it around his waist. Willow blinked at him.

"Probably me screaming."

"Got it," Buffy said tersely. She still looked upset, but it was definitely more contained. "Do you still have that pistol?"

"Yes."

"Bring that with you. If things get out of control and I can't get there in time, for whatever reason, you shoot that bastard, understand?" Willow nodded. She opened her mouth, closed it, shuddered.

"He'll want to toy with me first," she said, visibly bringing herself under control. "Raimey doesn't really do 'enjoyment', but he does like playing around with people when he gets the chance. Psychologically, I mean. It's…" She hesitated, then went on. "It's what he really wants to do. Not the mob hits, all efficiency and quietness. He likes to hurt people. So he won't kill me when I walk in, and he probably won't kill Tara right away, either. That gives us time."

"Time for you to shoot him in the chest," Xander said, shaking his head. "Don't play his games, Willow. Don't wait around for him to get the better of you. If you won't let Buffy go in and pull her Xena shtick, then you need to just walk in there and shoot him as soon as you get the chance. As soon as he's talking to you, distracted, anything."

"I won't kill him," Willow objected, rubbing at her forearm. "I'll distract him myself, and get him focused on messing with me, and that's when Buffy comes in."

"So you're bait," Buffy said, sighing. "That's a weirdly familiar thought. Oh, right; that was what we were trying to avoid in the first place,"

"Maybe so," Willow allowed, "but if I'm the cheese and he's the rat, the trap will close before he can eat me." There was a pause. "Ok, that was a bad metaphor." She turned to the stairs. "I'll get the gun." As she reached the third step, Buffy called after her.

"I didn't mean it, Will." The redhead glanced over her shoulder at the blond, who furrowed her brow, but held her gaze. "About Tara." Willow, silent, continued up the stairs.

8888888

"She won't c-come," Tara said. Raimey was sitting on the bed beside her, casually tapping a gleaming scalpel blade against her forearm. He shrugged, and pressed down with the scalpel until blood rushed up to well around the blade. Tara gasped with the pain, and Raimey lifted the scalpel from her arm to peruse the blade as if it were a piece of fine art.

"Oh, I think she will."

"She d-doesn't care about m-me," Tara said, trying to ignore the sting from the cut on her arm. "She thinks I set her up."

"Well," Raimey said, "that's funny. If anything, she set _you_ up. Not knowingly, of course, but still." He cut her again, without warning, barely even looking at her as he slashed the blade down across her forearm to leave another two-inch gash beside the first. This time Tara cried out, the skin around the wounds going numb while the cuts themselves seemed to burn. "Keep your voice down, won't you? I'd hate to have to gag you and miss out on your charming conversational skills." He punctuated this with a quick, sharp jab to her collarbone, one that left her with blood trickling down between her breasts.

"Fuck you," Tara bit out, trying again to wriggle away from Raimey. Her shoulders wrenched, her legs twisted, and she got nowhere.

"Why, when you'd so much rather fuck _her_?" He smiled. "She doesn't know you're a murderer, Tara. What do you think she'll say when she finds out? So many secrets you've been hiding, little girl."

"I t-told you," Tara said, blinking away sudden and unwelcome tears. "She's n-not interested. I'm sure she w-won't give a damn." _Oh, right, T. She won't care at all. _

"Well, we'll see, won't we? Meanwhile, I'll just entertain myself here. While I'm doing _this_," Raimey added pointedly, slashing another bloody line across the back of Tara's wrist, "I'd like you to contemplate our friend Mr. Lyman's last minutes. Or, should I say," and another, higher up on the arm, "his last seconds. After all, scissors to the throat can be quite a quick way to go. Excruciatingly painful, but it's over fast." Tara didn't bother to reply, squeezing her eyes shut as the tears finally did slip down her cheeks, focusing only on not crying out again. She wouldn't give him a scream, so he could gag her like a child. She wouldn't give him that.

88888888888

"I'll take her to the airport with Xander," Buffy told Agent Henderson quietly. "She may hate us for it, but we'll get her out of here."

"Get her to Quantico; we'll set her up with a program there. Are you sure you don't want an agent with you?" Buffy shook her head, glancing back towards where Willow sat with Xander, nervously tapping her hands against the table.

"I barely convinced her to leave; if you try to set her up with a bodyguard she doesn't know, she'll freak." Henderson sighed, rubbing a hand across her eyes.

"You're probably right about that. All right. Move her out."

Buffy turned, going to the kitchen table. She took Willow's elbow and lifted her carefully out of her chair. Xander led the way, opening the front door for the two women and, with a nod at Henderson, closing it behind them.

Willow, Buffy and Xander made their way down Willow's walkway to Buffy's car, which was parked in the lot alongside a nondescript police car. The cop inside the maroon Subaru looked at them, reaching for the window button; Buffy leaned in and said something, and he sat back. Moving as calmly and deliberately as possible, Willow let Xander hand her into the backseat of Buffy's car, buckling her seatbelt as her two friends slid into the front seats.

Once they were out of the driveway and on the forest-lined Virginia road, Willow let out a breath.

"Henderson's going to kill me herself when she finds out we duped her."

"Probably," Xander agreed. "Let's hope she gets the chance."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

The motel was a seedy one. Willow supposed she should have expected that, but still, the thought of Tara inside one of those dim, stale little rooms, alone with Cole Raimey, made her feel slightly sick. She rubbed at her upper arms, trying to steel herself. Standing in the parking lot, the gun an uncomfortable weight against her side in the inner pocket of her too-big leather jacket (the one she'd borrowed years ago from Xander and had never given back), Willow wished without really giving it words that Buffy was standing beside her. That she could just hand this over to someone braver, smarter, more prepared. But Buffy wasn't there, of course; Buffy was somewhere casing the motel or still walking from where, after dropping Willow off, Xander and she had hidden the car. Willow looked around, but all she could see were a few scattered vehicles, one bicycle, and the strip of motel that rose like a child's slumping sand castle out of the tarmac. No sign of FBI, but no sign of Buffy, either.

Don't think like that, she told herself. Willow shook her head, and forcibly reminded herself that this had been her plan. She had to trust that Buffy was there, out of sight, doing her job. Just like Buffy was trusting that Willow would do her job, and right now, that job meant unfreezing her breathless limbs and getting a move on.

"Okay," Willow said aloud, and dropped her hands to her sides. She wanted to take out the gun before she even approached the room, but managed not to let herself reach for it. Now that she might actually have to use the weapon on someone else, someone living and breathing and bleeding, Willow wasn't sure that she'd be able to grab the gun when the time came; resisting the urge now only made that worse, but she knew that showing up on Raimey's door with a pistol in her hand would be as good as slitting Tara's throat herself. Unless, of course, she could shoot Raimey as soon as he opened the door? But surely he wouldn't be that stupid. Surely... "Just do it, Will," she told herself, gritting her teeth against the nervous thoughts that spun so wildly inside her head. "Go!"

And she walked up to room number 14 and, closing her eyes hard before opening them to meet the faded wood of the door, Willow knocked.

"It's me," she called, and then regretted it but wasn't sure why. Logically, she knew that Raimey would require proof that it was actually her, but she couldn't help but worry that everything, even just those words, was only making things worse. "Raimey, let me in."

"Will you huff and puff?" he asked from inside, and she could feel his dry amusement through the door. Her hands, snugly gloved, began to sting. Willow swallowed, her heart coming alive in her, each pulse painful. The door opened.

Tara, bloody, her pretty face marred with a strip of silvery tape across her mouth, stood shadowed in the slight crack of doorway. Raimey stood behind her, a knife at her throat. In that instant, Willow and Tara's eyes met, and Willow read a very clear message there: Kill him. As if party to their silence, Raimey smiled.

"If you're armed, I'd think twice. By the time you reach for anything, she'll be your own personal Pez dispenser." Tara's hard blue eyes said, Do it anyway, just do it, forget me, and Willow knew her own were sending a message just as clear: No.

"I'm no fool, Cole," she said out loud, breaking her gaze, and held up both hands. "We're playing by your rules."

"Exactly," he agreed, and stepped back, dragging Tara with him. Her face didn't change throughout the whole exchange, but now Willow saw the angled sheen of tears in her eyes. She felt a muscle somewhere in her throat jump tensely, and stepped inside. "Close the door." She did it. "Lock it." She did it.

Raimey pulled Tara back towards the bed, and Willow couldn't stop herself from a halting half-step towards them. Raimey caught it and smirked.

"You're lucky I'm not a pervert, ladies," he told them, and let go of Tara only to shove her down to sit on the mattress. He sat too, one arm around her shoulders to keep her in place. Willow saw for the first time that her arms were not handcuffed behind her, as she'd thought, but taped. "Otherwise, this could get nasty."

"Are we supposed to feel grateful for that?" Willow asked, trying to sound arch, her mind racing. Raimey liked confrontation, liked interesting things, liked fire. She couldn't let him get bored with them before Buffy was ready, or, one way or another, it would all be over. Raimey smiled.

"Well, I should say so." He gestured for her to come closer, and Willow stayed where she was. Raimey frowned, and brought the knife up to Tara's collarbone. Willow saw that she was already bleeding from the arms, and that there was one shallow slice along the side of her throat. "Come here, Doctor, or I'll do something unpleasant."

Willow took three small steps nearer to the bed. Tara's eyes were screaming at her now, sapphire blue and filled with desperate rage. Willow tried not to look at them, hating herself for not being able to just… To just… She took a breath.

"You have me, Cole. You win. Let her go."

"But we have so many things to talk about, and the lovely Tara is so very important," he argued calmly, playing with a strand of Tara's hair. "Think of her as a prop. Feel free to sit down, Doctor; just like our sessions. I'm going to tell you a story." Tara made a muffled sound against the tape, and Raimey yanked the strand of hair hard. Willow's lips tightened.

"I don't think this is the time for stories. You've got what you want, so just let her go and I'll-"

"I've 'got what I want'? What is it that you think I want, Willow, exactly? How do you know I've got it?" She blinked, stepped closer. Two feet between her and the bed now.

"You want me. You want to finish what you started, and you want revenge. But mostly you want to complete the job. You hate leaving things, leaving loose strings. And after I'm gone, you can disappear. Start over. Do what you like." He nodded, shrugging, and tugged Tara a little closer to him. She made another sound, nostrils flaring, but didn't struggle.

"That's very good, Doctor, but hardly surprising. And you're missing something. That's your problem, isn't it? You see the big picture, but you miss the details. For instance, you think that 'finishing the job' means killing you. And, I suppose to an extent it does." He gestured with the knife, tilting his head thoughtfully. "But I wasn't trying to kill you, Willow, I was trying to immolate you. There's a difference. I'm sure that from your position, of course, the two were very much the same."

"Fine, you want to play?" she asked, harshly, understanding. "This isn't how you're going to crush me, Cole. That girl," she added, jutting her chin at Tara, "is not going to break me down."

"No? But you're so worried about her, Willow, so very concerned."

"She's a friend of mine," Willow allowed, keeping her eyes on Raimey. "She worked for me. I don't want her hurt. I don't want anyone hurt. So why don't you just let her go and find a better way?" Raimey sighed.

"If you want to keep insisting she's not important, then you're perfectly welcome to do so. It would be more fun the other way, but after all, this is just as bad for her as it is for you. Worse, maybe. So I'll enjoy that much, and once she's dead, maybe I'll find something better for you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Raimey wound his fingers in Tara's hair and yanked her head to one side, baring her throat. He lifted the knife and traced her jugular, and Willow found she couldn't breathe.

"Tara's in love with you, Doctor," Raimey remarked, not looking away from Tara's neck. "Didn't you know?"

"She's not in love with me," Willow protested weakly, and couldn't stop the glance at the blond. Tara was breathing all right, she was breathing fairly hard, and her eyes were wide and panicked. They weren't on Raimey, though, and they weren't on Willow. Tara was seeing something Willow couldn't, and whatever it was, it scared her.

"She is," Raimey disagreed. "And that's not even the best part. The best part… is that-" Tara jerked in Raimey's grasp, and the knife slid across her throat towards her ear. Raimey grunted with surprise, and just as Willow's hand faltered towards where the gun was hidden, he'd managed to regain his grip on Tara's hair and hit her hard in the face with his free hand, thankfully not with the blade pointed in. She cried out, an awful muted sound through the tape, and an angry red splotch blossomed across her cheek. Willow dropped her hand instantly, and thanked the gods that Raimey's eyes were fixed on her face and not her hands. Raimey coughed. "Feisty little thing, isn't she? And desperate. Desperate that I… What was it, Tara? 'Keep my slimy, worthless mouth shut'?" He laughed.

Willow felt something in her stomach, something cold and uncertain. She looked at Tara, and nearly stumbled: the blond was crying, blue eyes reddening against the salt. Tara shook her head, but Raimey just patted her on the cheek and went on.

"Oh, yes, she was very vocal about it before I gagged her. She was quite insistent that you, my dear Doctor Rosenberg, never find out the truth."

"I already know the truth," Willow said, trying to sound hard. She felt so fucking helpless here, watching Raimey and Tara on the bed, Tara with the tape and the blood and the tears. "She's Donnie Maclay's sister. You worked for her family." To her shock, Raimey let out a shout of laughter. Willow looked from one to the other, and felt her stomach drop. She'd missed something, yet again.

"Oh, that's good," Raimey said, still chuckling. "You thought that was your little ace, didn't you? Tara told me you knew who she was; that's not the big, bad secret. The big, bad secret is more about, you know, what she is." The cold thing snaked its way up through her ribs, found her arms, sent cold jolts through the stinging chronic pain around her wrists and palms. Willow shook her head.

"What are you talking about?" Tara shook her head again, trying to catch Willow's eyes, but Willow couldn't look away from Raimey.

"Your girlfriend," he said, very quiet now, "is a murderer."

Willow felt her heartbeat slow, very loudly, in her ears.

"That's a lie."

"Is it?" he asked, and pulled Tara's head up from where she'd let it fall against her chest, forcing their eyes to meet. When Willow looked at Tara, she saw the plain, burning, horrible truth there. "She killed a man in cold blood. With scissors," he added helpfully. "And she didn't even look back." Willow stared as, slowly, Raimey peeled the tape away from Tara's mouth to leave her lips ringed with red. Silence.

"I had to," Tara said then, hoarsely. She held Willow's gaze, the tears bunching at the corners of her eyes before they slid towards her nose. "I… I had to."

"You had to," Willow repeated, still stunned.

"I didn't know," Tara swore, but the words dropped hard and false against the moth-eaten carpet. Raimey, satisfied, just sat and watched the wreckage.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"Willow," Tara said after a pause, what should have been a plea but was instead just a word, and Willow could see the way her eyes tightened around the tears, trying to keep them in. The way her mouth twitched down and then firmed, the way her lashes slashed across the blue irises and blinked away the salt. Tara was hardening, right in front of her, the resolve taking her over until all that was left of broken girl was the way Willow's name hung in the air between them, waiting to be allowed inside.

Raimey wasn't watching Tara. Raimey was watching Willow, his eyes greedy on her face, collecting each flinch, each flare of shock that radiated out from somewhere in her chest.

"It's so hard to find good help these days," Raimey said then, shaking his head. "You just never know with background checks."

And that was when Tara twisted, arms still wrenched behind her back, and lunged towards the side of Raimey's head. In the split-second before Raimey let out a startled cry of pain, Willow saw Tara's teeth close on his ear, and then blond hair fell across Raimey's cheek and all she could see was the knife, now that Raimey was over the initial shock, moving towards Tara's back.

It wasn't a sound, really, so much as a movement of air. The room stilled, and Willow felt a cushion of hard wind shove her arm back into her shoulder, a jolt that hurt more than she'd expected. The gun, which she could not remember grabbing, trembled wildly before she realized that it was her own hand that was trembling, and then clattered with a muted thud to the carpeted floor.

Raimey didn't fly backwards like in movies. He didn't scream, either. He just… slumped.

Willow saw it all in freeze frame, Polaroids in her head: Raimey letting out a whoosh of air, his back bowing out, his chin dropping towards his knees; Raimey slumping backwards and sideways across the bed, pulling Tara down against the mattress with his bulk; Tara straightening away from the man with blood smeared across her jaw; a red stain blossoming and spreading across Cole Raimey's chest.

Tara stood slowly, uneven, awkward, trying to wipe her face against her shoulder, trying not to stare at Willow or at Raimey. She got one step away from the bed, and then fell to her knees.

Willow almost tripped over the gun, rushing to the other woman. She knelt, reaching for Tara's shoulders, and gasped as Tara crumpled completely. Willow caught Tara's head against her lap, one hand against the blond's face to keep it turned up, the other hovering over her torso, searching for the wound. It wasn't until she felt the hot seep of blood against her knee that she knew.

"Oh, goddess," Willow murmured, a slow horror flooding her. She didn't dare turn Tara to see, but when she moved one hand beneath Tara's shoulder and felt the wet slice there, she didn't have to. She hadn't been quick enough after all. She hadn't beaten the knife.

"Willow?" Tara asked, and Willow's eyes snapped back to the blond's face. Tara was looking up at her dazedly, her lips parted, face very white. "Is he dead?" she asked, and though her voice was quiet the words were very sure.

"I- yes," Willow said, glancing over her shoulder at the bed. "It's going to be okay, Tara," she added, the hand that wasn't keeping pressure on the stab wound in Tara's back going to her cheek. "My friends are going to come, and we'll get you to a hospital, and you'll be fine."

"Hurts," Tara muttered, almost absently, and Willow felt a scream rising in her. She bit it back, swallowed it down into her belly, and closed her eyes hard before meeting Tara's gaze again.

"I know, baby, but just hang on and we'll get you help. You're going to be just fine." One corner of Tara's mouth crooked up in that sly, half-wicked way that Willow adored despite herself.

''Baby'?" Tara asked, her eyelids fluttering. Willow, without stopping to think, leaned down and pressed her mouth against the blond's. When she drew back, Tara's eyes were closed, her features lax. Her head lolled down Willow's thigh, away from her stomach.

"No," Willow said, shaking her head, a light, hysterical laugh breaking through her lips. "No, that's not right." She tilted Tara's face back upright, thumb pressing against the bloody chin. "Tara. Tara, come on, come on," she pleaded, slapping the blond's face with one gloved hand. "He's dead," she explained, rocking towards Tara on the ground. "I killed him; it's over. You're safe. I saved you."

Willow looked up, looked up towards the door. Nothing.

"Buffy!" she shouted, raggedly. "Buffy! Help! Someone!" Back down at Tara. "I need you," Willow said to the woman on the floor, barely noticing that she was shaking. "Tara, I love you!"

Nothing.

8888888888888

"From ashes to ashes," the priest said, hands folded in front of him, "dust to dust." Xander, glancing to his side and seeing the way Willow was trembling in the light fall breeze, reached out and put a careful arm around her narrow shoulders. She stepped towards him gratefully, pale face turned down. He thought about the last time his friend had willingly accepted so much close physical contact, and then looked up at the bright, beautiful sky. _Thank you_, he thought, hoping she could hear him, somehow. _Thank you, Tara._

From Willow's other side, Buffy reached out and took the redhead's hand. As the priest finished and the grave was filled in, Buffy leaned closer to Willow.

"I know this is hard," she murmured, eyes on the headstone. "But you're being really, really strong, Will."

"I have to be," Willow replied, lowly, before stepping away from both her friends. The three of them and the priest were the only mourners at the funeral, and theirs was the sole service taking place in the cemetery. As she approached the grave, Willow reflected that most other people would be outside, too, but in far nicer places than this. It was a gorgeous day, brisk and cool and very clear, the sun light and brilliant against her skin.

Standing in front of the headstone, Willow reached out and laid one bare hand against the top. She felt the chill of the rock trickle up through her fingertips, past her wrist, across the skin of her forearm until it met the short sleeves of her sweater. Willow smoothed her thumb across the stone, watching the way the granite brought out the white lacework of her scars, and feeling a weight against her chest give way. She didn't cry. She didn't need to cry. Not anymore.

"It's okay now," Willow whispered to herself, to the grave, to the lovely blue sky. And, her hand lingering as she did it, Willow turned and walked away.

Xander and Buffy fell into step beside her as they made their way to the car, but none of them spoke during the drive back to Willow's now-police-free home. Once they stepped out of the car and headed for the front door, though, Xander shook his head.

"Still think it should have been… what do you call a Wiccan funeral? Not Christian, anyway." Willow shrugged, reaching for the doorknob.

"Her family is Christian. That's what they'd expect."

"Like we care what they want," Buffy muttered, and then held up both hands at Willow's sharp look. "I know."

"Just being careful," Willow said, and pulled open the door. Inside, it was almost as silent as the graveyard had been. No birds indoors, though. Still, Willow thought with an inner sigh, at least she could see the floor these days. Leaving Xander and Buffy rummaging in her kitchen, Willow tiptoed into the living room. It didn't feel right to walk properly here, now, in this quiet.

Reaching the couch, Willow closed her eyes and waited for her breath to even out. Without her friends in the room, her heartbeat seemed to have a pounding life of its own. Finally, Willow gave up on trying to keep herself under control, and just leaned over the sofa.

"We're back," she said, and that was all the warning Tara got before Willow kissed her awake with enough enthusiasm to make the blond nearly fall off the side of the couch. Tara grabbed Willow around the neck and pulled her down over the back of the sofa, and Willow made sure to avoid putting any pressure on Tara's still-healing wound as she kneeled over the other woman and smiled.

"All w-went well?" Tara asked, blue eyes shining.

"Aye-aye, Captain," Willow asserted, kissing the corner of Tara's mouth. "Everyone who knows you…" Another kiss, this time on the other corner, "…thinks you're dead." The nose. "Raimey did his job…" The left cheek. "…before the cops finally got him." The right. "And we," Willow finished, her scarred hands tenderly brushing a strand of golden hair away from Tara's forehead, "are going to be just fine."

"Or so you think," Tara said, a tinge of wickedness in her voice, and tugged Willow down to show her just exactly what she meant.

**The End!**


	23. Epilogue

**The lovelies over at The Kitten Board (giant Willow/Tara board) asked for this epilogue, so here y'all go.**

"Hey." Hands brushed against the tops of her shoulders, warm fingers smoothing across the straps of her tank top and the loose strands of blond hair that had come out of the high, casual ponytail. Tara smiled to herself, not glancing up, and turned a page.

"Hey, yourself," she said, trying to resist the light shiver that wanted to sweep from her neck to her thighs when Willow's thumbs stroked across the dips of her collarbone, edging beneath the thin straps of her shirt. She was suddenly very aware that she was not wearing a bra. Warm breath danced across the side of her throat as Willow leaned forward, lips hovering inches from her ear, the tips of her red hair just touching the curve where Tara's shoulder met her neck.

"That's all I get? I've been working hard all day and you give me 'hey'?" Tara's lips quirked again, and she cleared her throat.

"I'd have more sympathy if your d-definition of 'work' involved m-more than just sitting in front of a laptop," she mused, eyes moving across the same sentence for a third time. Willow scoffed, and Tara yelped as the straps of her tank top were suddenly tugged down over her shoulders and halfway to her elbows. She inserted one finger into the book to mark her place, twisting her torso in the wicker chair to meet Willow's crooked grin.

"That's not very nice of you to say," the redhead said, shaking her head. Tara sighed, carefully turned back to face the table, found her bookmark, placed it in the novel, and set the book down. Willow's hands slid along her arms, her breath catching slightly. Then, very slowly, Tara twisted around again and pulled her right leg up, swung it over the back of the chair, and lowered it to the other side. Facing Willow now, Tara looked down. Her shirt, low-cut to begin with, was now drooping precariously above her nipples.

"I guess you'll want me to make it up to you," she said, eyes sliding up Willow's slim frame until they found her face. The redhead's grin widened, her green eyes glinting.

"I guess I will," she breathed. Tara lifted a hand, but Willow caught it in her own. The scars that covered Willow's wrist and forearm made the light, easy strength of her grip even more striking, and Tara's heartbeat quickened. "No," Willow said, shaking her head. "You don't get to move."

"Are you going to tie me up?" the blond asked, teasingly, and Willow blushed. She did not, however, release Tara's hand.

"I don't need to," Willow said, and there was no embarrassment in her low voice. "Because if you _do_ move... Let's just say you won't want to." She let go of Tara's wrist and stepped closer, pressed against the back of the chair, her hands going to the hem of the blond's thin top. Tara felt her mouth crook up in a half-smile, and through heavy-lidded eyes she watched her girlfriend's hands oh-so-slowly pull up the shirt.

"And why is that?" she asked, almost surprised at the throatiness of her own voice. "What are you going to do?" Willow leaned in, her lips just above Tara's skin, her tongue darting out to touch the creamy hollow between Tara's breasts.

"Because if you move," Willow began, and lifted Tara's shirt off the blond's compliant torso, "...I'll stop."

Her hands, the pads of the fingers roughened with activity, slid down to Tara's chest, the thumbs brushing over her nipples before, in one swift movement, Willow stripped out of her own shirt, leaving her standing in nothing but a too-thin black bra. Tara took a breath and leaned towards her, but Willow placed one palm flat against her collarbone.

"Uh-uh," she said, smirking, and then she kissed her. Heat exploded through Tara's stomach, racing down between her legs, and she squirmed on the chair and wished to god she hadn't decided that straddling it was the best plan. Tara wanted nothing more than to grab Willow, get off the stupid chair and have at it, but Willow was pushing her backwards and she could do nothing but obey. In an instant, Tara's back was pressed against the table, leaving her legs open and her torso bared, her hands hovering out to the sides, unable to touch. Tara groaned and Willow chuckled into her mouth, her hands stroking along Tara's ribcage and sending ripples of gooseflesh across her stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of her jeans. Willow was bent almost double over the back of the chair now, her breasts just barely touching Tara's own, her tongue exploring Tara's mouth with sweet expertise. She grunted, inhaling, and the cotton fabric of her bra rubbed against Tara's nipples and the blond had to, she _had _to reach up and wrap her hands around Willow's supple waist. As soon as she moved, Willow broke off the kiss and straightened, clicking that clever tongue. Tara sat up, her back aching from the angle, pouting with disappointment.

"I'll cut you a little slack," Willow said wickedly, and pulled Tara to her feet. The blond nearly stumbled over the chair as Willow led her from the kitchen to the downstairs bedroom, and then nearly shrieked with frustration when, as soon as the door was closed, Willow pushed her down on the bed and began to wiggle out of her pants.

"Please," Tara breathed, watching Willow's breasts squeeze together as she bent to step out of the jeans.

"I still feel like you don't..." Willow trailed off, stepping into the space between Tara's legs and rotating her hips until the only space between the two of them was made out of underwear. "...appreciate me," she finished, leaning down to capture Tara's mouth again as Tara's fists clenched in the bedspread in an effort not to move. Willow's fingers found their way beneath her plain white panties, dancing around the apex of her thighs and away again. Tara gasped into the kiss, pulling away to throw her head back as Willow dropped her own head to Tara's chest.

"I- I appreciate you," Tara called, writhing against the redhead as Willow slipped one hand between Tara's legs and the other to the back of her head, tangling her fingers in long blond hair.

"Do you?" the redhead asked hotly, and paused all movements. Tara gasped again, this time in desperation, and wrapped her legs around Willow's waist, thrusting against her hand in the hopes that she'd start again.

"I do! I really, really do! I-" Tara's voice broke off without warning as Willow licked her lips and, with her free hand, wrapped an arm around Tara's back for support as she lifted the other woman off the mattress. The action gave Willow even easier access, and Tara found she couldn't really remember how to speak at all as Willow backed them into the wall and, with her hand and her hips, wiped everything but explosions from Tara's mind.

After, when Tara collapsed on trembling legs to the floor, Willow laughed as Tara shook her head.

"Damn," she panted, eyes closed. "I should ignore you m-more often." Willow dropped a kiss on Tara's shoulder as they leaned against the wall, and smiled.

"Maybe later," she said, looking up through long lashes. "Right now I could use a little... extra attention." Tara let out a laugh, then pushed herself to her knees and straddled the redhead's waist.

"I think that could be arranged."


End file.
